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Full text of "Wordeater"

WMaM fwwww—w I'l iin 1 m m m < 1 i * — ' 1IM|11 ' ' tummm m 



%»•' 



*«■ 




WOEDEATER X2CCVX STAFF 

Judy Belfield 7risti Karsten 
Jo D. Guse Smeot McCabe 

Mark Hulfactor David Moore 
John Stobart 

To get a submission printed in this issue, four of the above had to vote for 
acceptance. Cash prises are frequently awarded to outstanding contr butors to an 
issue. There were many high-quality submissions for this issue , but unfortunately, 
our funds ran out c For that reason, there are no literary awards for WOEDEATER 
XXXVI. 

$30.00 FOR COVER. DESIGNS GOES TO MARGE PETERSON 

Manuscripts or cover designs for WOEDEATER 37 must be submitted to John 
Stobart in room C 1069 by October 5. Manuscripts will not be returned., They may 
be anonymous and should be typed, 

NOTE: Several other pieces, which do not appear here, were accepted^ by the 
staff for this issue- Our space ran out, and they will be printed in WOEDEATER 37, 
the next issue., Look for works by Jan Allen, J, Aschenbrenner , J. D. Guse, Geri 
Harder, Charles Hinton, David Moore, Charon Odeh si, Marge Peterson, Adriane Saylor, 
and Simon. 

Other deadlines this year include: 



WOEDEATER 38 - Ilovember 33, 1901 

39 - February 36, 19G3 

40 - April ;0, 1933 

Thanks to all who helped collate. 
******** 



Simon 

Diane Francis 
J. D. Guse 
Simon 
David Moore 

M I! 

Geri Harder 
Diane Francis 
Jan Allen 
David Moore 

Diane Francis 
J. D. Guse 



Judy 


Belfield 


David 


Moore 


Judy 


Belfield 


Marge 


Peterson 


Geri 


Harder 


David 


Moore 


Judy 


Belfield 


11 


11 


n 


11 


David 


Moore 


ti 


11 



Adriane Saylor 

David Moore 

Judy Belfield 
11 11 

Simon 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

CONNECT THE DOTS 1 

CREATIVE TYPING 1 

reservations on punk • ••••••••••••• 2 

MR. RAISINHSAD 2 

METAMORPHIC ULTRAFROGS . 3 

TWISTED CREATIVITY 3 

INSPIRATION " .",'-3 

FUN WITH HOMONYMS ^ 

ROUND Z * 

FEATURING THE FIRES (AND OTHER WORDS) 5 

POETIC LICENSE 3 

BITTER REPLY 5 

WISHFUL THINKING IN THE JUCO CAFE #_ "6 

WISHFUL THINKING IN THE JUCO CAFE Jfe 6 

PARTY ART 6 

ALL IN THE MIND 6 

SOAP BUBBLES AND EXISTENCE 8 

ECHOES 9 

GOOD-BYES 9 

WANDERLUST 9 

THE PLASTIC BEAD FANTASY 9 

EYES ALONE 10 

CHARADE 10 

HARD-CORE FATALISM 10 

I AM THE VOID 11 

THE GHOSTS IN MY LIVING ROOM 11 

RISE AND FALL 12 

DEATHGAMES 12 

ALL I WANT RIGHT NOW 13 

SWIMMING, SLIDING, GRAY (MATTER?) 13 



(continued) 



Geri Harder 
Judy Belfield 
Jan Allen 
Judy Belfield 
Geri Harder 
M. J. Crestman 
Geri Harder 

M II 

Judy Belfield 

Adriane' Saylor 

J. D. Guse 

Geri Harder 

Sharon Odehnal 
n ti 

Jan Allen 

J. D. Guse 

Simon 
it ii 

Judy Belfield 
David Moore 
Jan Allen 
Judy Belfield 
David Moore 

M II 

Simon 

Judy Belfield 

Sharon Odehnal 

David Moore 
it it 

J. D. Guse 

Adriane Saylor 
tt tt 

Judy Belfield 
J. Aschenbrenner 
Mary Hensley 
Judy Belfield 
Geri Harder 



Judy Belfield 
ti ii 

Geri Harder 

J. Aschenbrenner 

Simon 

Mary Hensley 

Jan Allen 

Douglas W. Billett 

J. D. Guse 

David Moore 

Douglas W. Billett 

Diane Francis 

Adriane Saylor 

Judy Belfield 

Simon 

Simon 

Judy Belfield 

Simon 

J. Aschenbrenner 

Adriane Saylor 

Marge Pe-terson 



TABLE OF CONTENTS, continued 

GIVE ME OLD CLOTHES ANYDAY 14 

LOSING FRIENDS 1^ 

WEED Ik 

CHANGES AHEAD , 15 

FOR -DOGS AND DREAMERS 15 

MONDAY WAS A CHECKER GAME UNFINISHED 16 

FIRST BLOOD 18 

FIRST TIME 18 

1969 OLD TOWN 1981 19 

THE LAST RIDE 19 

POEM TO PAT 21 

DEFENSE AGAINST A NOSY NEIGHBOR 22 

PATRICIA 23 

DO YOU? 23 

WORDEATER — A CHILD'S VIEW 23 

IF THE DOG 23 

RUDE INTERVENTION 23 

I WANT TO BE A MONK 2h 

I USED TO BE CRAZY 2.k 

AN UNEXPECTED AFTERLIFE 2h 

HELL 27 

WHEN THERE WAS GOD, OR, PROLOGUE FOR AN UNWRITTEN NOVEL. . 27 

MAZE OF CONFUSION 28 

IT NEVER ENDS 28 

RANDOM GENERATION 28 

THE DAY AFTER THE BOMB 29 

THE ROAD'S END 29 

AMBERCROM AND 'BEYOND 30 

AZAMANTA SWIMS GRACEFULLY 3^ 

SACRILIGIOUS COMPLIMENT TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN J>k 

TOMORROW IS TIME ENOUGH 35 

DAY RETROGRADE, OR MOON, VOID OF COURSE 35 

WHEN I CALLED TODAY 35 

MOMENTS . 35 

SUNDAY DRIVE 36 

BECAUSE YOUR KISSES WERE SO WARM 36 

HOW DID YOU KNOW? 36 

FOR DAVE 37 

FACING IT AGAIN 37 

THIS TIME 37 

I SIT . . . PEN IN HAND 37 

LET US RUN AWAY 37 

A FANTASY 38 

LOVE ON THE ROCKS 38 

"13" AND NOTHING BETTER TO DO 3 

ACE IS THE PLACE 38 

A LINEAR PROGRESSION kl 

A SONG kl 

NEW WORDS TO AN OLD TUNE *fl 

THE SHADOW OF THE LAU kZ 

MY HANDS kZ 

TO THE BLOODGUILTY ONE kZ 

LOVE MONEY ♦ kj> 

LIKE A TH-IEF . kj> 

THE JUMAN FETUS IS LIKE A PARASITIC TAPEWORM THAT NEEDS TO 

BE PUNISHED k3 

DON'T. FACE THE NATION (NON-SENSE) kk 

EVEN A.S -THE SUN SHINES kk 

SIGHTING A NAVY AD k$ 

PAIN SO DEEP k3 

SOME STUFF ON A THURSDAY k? 

TOAD TEA ko 



******** 



Simon 
CONNECT THE DOTS 
I remember a very creative game that I learned when I was younger. 
I am not sure who invented it. It is called CONNECT THE DOTS. 

Below you will find a list of 'numbers. Take each number and 
attach it to' a dot in the box (also below). Then draw a line joining 
dot number T with dot number 2. Continue with a line to 3, 4, 5, and 
so. on, until you have finished. Have fun. 






NUMBER 


LIST 




1 


16 


31 


46 


2 


17 


32 


47 


3 


18 


33 


48 


4 


19 


34 


49 


5 


20 


35 


50 


6 


21 


36 


51 


/ 


22 


37 


52 


8 


23 


38 


53 


9 • 


24 


39 


•54 


10 


25 " 


40 


55 


11 


26 


41 


56 


12 


27 


42 


57 


13 


28 


43 


58 


14 


29 


44 


59 


15 


30 


45 


60 



<******'***** 



111! 



Diane Francis 
CREATIVE TYPING 



GOLD — glistens^- g 31 -! in the s fc r - of my brain. 
DIAMOKDS ^dazzle- delicately in the m x e s of my e £ 

1 '71 r^ 



aP ■ ■ * 
LOVE l e ii ve l y in the 



■heavens 



of my heart. 



aer fully in the ^Ve of my ears. 



WIND whistles 



K* 



J 



a 

d 1 ^ 
O" r Q 



>WS a u 



v 



n 



't skies 
*y in the of my soul. 



» 



*********************** 
1 



J. D. Guse 



reservations on punk 

aMDNG ALL THE IN THINGS TO BE DOING NOWADAYS ONE OF THE MORE 
INTERESTING FADS IS WRITING mIND YOU i'M NOT, SNEAKING OF JUST ANY 
WRITING i'M SPEAKING OR PUNK WRITING tHE IDEA. MAS STRUCK ON JUST 
RECENTLY BY AN OLD MUTE INDIAN WRITER NAMED crazy hoa ^f nr '^ r |?S c 
BOOK very few rules for writing crazy hoarse DESCRIBES WHAT IT lAKfcS 
TO WRITE PUNK nOTHING tHE WHOLE POINT BEHIND WRITING HH IS TO 
NOT WRITE BY THE RULES tHAT MEANS NO PARAGRAPHS NO PUNCTUATION 
NOTHING oF COURSE THERE ARE SOME DIFFICULTIES WITH WRITING AND 
SELLING punk literature the craze AS HE IS SOMETMS^FERraD 
TO BY FOLLOWERS STATES tHERE's JUST NOT ENOUGH DEMAND FOR PUNK JLIT 
ERATURE RIGHT NOW bUT WHEN ASKED WHETiffiR the craze THOUGHT HE 
WAS STEALING THE PUNK IDEA FROM THE MUSIC WORLD the craze REPLIED 
*wtc; Rmif TS TN ITS TWELFTH PRINTING ON THE RESERVATION wELL 
■Sw iASKBD wHERE DIDJOU COME UP WITH THE IDEA OF PUNK LITERA 

PAPTTMT7FD EXCEPT THE NAMES OF PEOPLE SO i USFrALL CAP11AL 
LfS^CE™ WW i WHICH xUSE A aiAIL {™ ™ *£„ 

SErTifsEE^™ D K $^£*u££i Kr r r s 

RESERVATION bUT tte craze IS QUICK TO ADD a LOT OF PEOPLE 
S IN SOME KIND OF PUNK STYLE LITERATURE UNINTENTIONALLY 
S^razV^R TOLAmS THAT MISSPELLING WORDS ON PURPOSE IS 
A mS PRACTICE tHE WRITER SOMETIMES THROWS IN A MISSPELLED 
woS^ WA^ THE READER STUDENTS ARE ALSO GOOD AT LEAVING OUT 
S^SrrnN mJSSED PWCTUATION IS REALLY A HARD WAY FOR THE, 
S™ GET m R^S WAS UP UNLESS OF COURSE YOU LEAVE 
THF PUNCTUATION OFF THE END OF A SENTENCE sO mr hoarse i ASKED , 
fSSoF WRITING IN IKE PUNK STYLE WTO KINDS OF 
PEOPLE ARE YOUR FOLLOWERS aLL KINDS iN FACT WE EVEN HAVE^A 
SFNATOR FRQN! south dakota WHO WRITES AND SPEAKS IN A PUNK STYLE 
oF COURSE NO OT UNDERSTANDS HIM AND HE VERY SELDOM MAKES AN 
Sm^^TfflS JOB ; MIT HE CAN OFTEN BE SEEN AT studio 54 

% not minm s?wn(fiwmiNG that can be said for punk 

LITERATURE THE ONLY SURE THING TO SAY IS 

Look at them Punk writers 
ain't they queer 
writing that punk crap 
drinking their beer 



Wannafcei p^ik wrij^r 
here's all ya gotta 
don't uiake it rhyme 



& * 



******** 




David Moore 

METAMCRPHIC ULTRAFROGS 

It's a codfish crime/I feel fine/It's a codfish crime/I feel 
fine/It's a codfish crime/I feel fine/It's a godfish crime/I 
feel time/It's a dog shit grime/I feel nine/It's a godshit rhyme/ 
I feel mine/It's a good time/I eat line/It's a catfish chyme/ 
I see shine/It's a rathole climb/I feel spine/It's a hellhole 
lime/I am mine/It's a lordship con/I ain't free/It's a crapshoot 
run/l will find/It's a frogless jump/I won't see/It's a mournful 
hump/I feel fine?/It's a city dump/A real find/It's a lordful 
chump/I felt fine/It was a codfish crime/I felt/It was a 
codfish/I/It was/ /It was?/It/It/It/It/It/It/It/lt/Fine 
And now for role reversal • . . 

My god has fleas 

Our dog, who art in heaven 

******** 



Geri Harder 



INSPIRATION 



I'm waiting for you, Inspiration* 
Lying here, pen in hand, 
Spread-eagle on the bed 
Just in case you're a man. 

The window's wide open 
So drift right in, please 
On the back of the breeze. 
Or use the door 
If that's more 
Your style. 
Take your time. 
I've got a while. 

Will I know you when you arrive? 
Will you slap my hand, give me five? 
Will I suddenly feel vibrantly alive? 



David Moore 

TWISTED CREATIVITY 

I 've preserved my sanity 
In formaldehyde 
And placed it on the shelf 
Right next to the ashes 
Of my Uncle Ralph 

They've put my soul 

In a bowl 

Of chocolate flavored phlegm 

And placed it before the door 

Of the dragon's den 



Will I go on a nice, natural high? 

Or will it be a bad trip, 

Drug-induced? 

What monstrosities in my subconscious mind 

Will be temporarily loosed 

Upon the earth? 

Will the result 

Be worth 

The pain they will cause? 

And how long will they last this time? 
You haven't always been kind 
In the past. 
And I find 

Myself having second thoughts 
About your coming today. 
I need my head together for now 
So just stay away. 



I've gazed as oceans 

Stained with blood 

Smash the iron dams 

And fill the silent lands below 

With a roaring flood 

I've watched the people in the streets 

Eating rats for lunch 

They'll hunt them softly 

"ith stolen bricks 

Then you'll hear the crunch 

I've heard the writing on the wall 
Scream in scarlet pain 
And I've seen the echoes in the hall 
Shout in falling rain 

All these things 

And many more 

Lacking thought and form 

Have gone past in darkness 

Just outside my door 



******** 



-3- 



Diane Francis 
FUN WITH HOMONYMS 

Aye, 

I stuck a needle in my 

eye And ate 

the eight ball. 

For I was the one 

who won the game. 

Si, I 

see the shining 

sea. 

Bea, 

be a dear and swat that 
bee. 
Wear your 
wares 
where we can see them. 

Two will be 
too many 
to find. 

I'll buy 

that by the time I go 

bye-bye. 

So I'll 

sew those pants — 

Did you rip them while digging ore 

or 
picking up the oar? 

Meet us at the 
meat market. 

The main ingredient is the horse's 

mane. 
Can you hear the noises 
here? 

'We're singing a hymn 
for Him. 

They'll be weak by the 
end of the week. 

Do you know if their 
car is over there? 

No, I don't 
know. 

I s'pose you dozed thru this poem. 
That's OK. I did too. 

******** 



Jan Allen 

HOUND 

Like the person wanting to lose 30 pounds, 

I try to drop the dead weight of my psyche. 

My mind is plump with normalcy, 

Laboriously learned in stultifying sterile places, 

dates, names, people, places 

appointments and disappointments 
Instead* of a small candle of creative conception 
To beam through my mundane thoughts, 
1 need a blowtorch. 

******** 



-*f~ 



David Moore 

FEATURING 'THE FIRES (AND OTHER WORDS) 

Warm ooze dripping 
Onto an open fire 
Jack the Ripper 
In panty hose 

Dead dogs stripping 

Just for hire 

Snip with clippers ««,-•<*» •* • ■ * 

An overside-- -nose- <<#*■-• -*• - «• •• • * 

I^umb hands gripping 
As he climbs the spire 
Look at Flipper 
Eat a rose 

Broken cups slipping 
Into a stinking mire 
Get a dipper 
As fungus grows 

(pick up the pace a little) 

Sump pump 

City dump 

Sitting on a tree stump 

Feeling like a mindless clump 

Topsy turvy 

Botulism 

And scurvy 

Are in no hurry 

To make us worry 

Homicide 

Suicide 

And herbicide too . « , < , 

All these things "©an happen**to yott * * 

Dire fires 
Burning higher 
Praying to their 
Explosive sires 

Dire fires 
Melting spires 

Scorching deserts 

And oozing mires 

Dire fires 
Like raging liars 
Crackle softly 
And never tire 

Floating mountains 
In the sky 
lii/hen they fall 
It's time to die 

I'm sitting alone 
Awaiting the phone 
And feeling as though 
I have no home 

I'm writing down phrases 
That make no sense,. «« -* 
Trivial sayings 
That seem so dense 



Diane Francis 

BITTER REPLY 

Irrationalism derived — ordinarily 

nuceolated. ... v „, w 

Thaumaturges lurk i-n«kc«*ners« euphistica^.. 

iy. 

Fairyland reasoning — eccentric 

effector. 

Vanglorious ennui. 

Rampageous scansion — euphorical 

pilferage. 

Outmaneuvered, excremtitious theorems. 

Rafflesious, yammering syllables 

oppugnantly metered. 

Eclair cissment tabescently infatuated. 

Megacephallic edacious sadist inquires 

thoughtfully — 

Demon's onslaught embraces subconscious 

niches. 

Toxic medicament anesthetizes kyphotic 

effusion. 

Abundant nonsense yearns sedation — 

Entailing notable sarcastic effect. 

Can you find the hidden message? 
Hint: The answer has FIRST priority. 

******** 
David Moore 



a 



POETIC LICENSE 



Tortured poets cry out 
To deaf ears 
Hoping against hope that 
A message will be heard 
Above the resentment 

Cha la la 

Toward sacred Ura 

The forbidden city 

A beginning without end 

Rules that cannot bend 

Feelings that can't be spent 

Messages that can't be sent 

Fungus fungus on the ground 
I'd love to kick you 
All around 

And as love decays 
It's time to fade 
A, 



W 



A, 



Leaving nothing but scars 



******** 



******** 



-5- 



J. D. Guse 



WISHFUL THINKING IN THE JUCO CAFE #L 

I've wanted to write 

so bad 

for so long 

that I've given way 

to napkins 

and the backs of deposit slips. 

My pen is always ready 

but I'm often without paper. 

So I'm waiting for the day 

when no paper is handy 

and I' must write all over my arms and 

legs 
or on a cigarette pack 
or even 
God forbid 
on a bathroom wall. 

******** 



WISHFUL THINKING IN THE JUCO CAFE #2 

Through all these trying times 
when I have so much to write 
I just wish that I could draw. 
I feel so much is said 
by just one black curved line 
or a face upon a canvas. 

But I have chosen written words 

instead of picture words. 

Maybe cause the written word 

explains more to me. 

Or maybe cause the written word 

expresses more to me. 

Or maybe the whole reason is 

I really just can't draw. 

******** 



Judy Bel field 



PARTY ART 



A party of artists in feathers and finery 

gathered up sequins and glitter and glee 
and met in a loft at twenty past three 
one Saturday night on a whim. 

By three- thirty- two, all of them were quite smashed — 
having been boozed and potted and hashed. _ 
They twinkled and flashed and garishly clashed 
under pink lightbulbs swinging from strings. 

"Frippery — shamefully fabulous!" 

said Frederick Fletcher, fragile and frail, 

indigo-lipped and powdered so pale 

to sensuous, quivery Monica Male. 

"Dahling, you're so gawdy and wonderful," she replied. 

Many other words were stuttered and spouted, 

expounding aesthetics — the ins and the outed, 
the latter of which was most scathingly flouted 
at every little two or threesome come together. 

The gala continued for a year and a day 

(because a year and a day is the only way 
poets define time-limits on such things) 
and ended when the colors blurred — 

pouring slowly from giant paint buckets overhead. 

******** 
David Moore 



ALL IN THE MIND 



Carnivore Prowl 
Yellow and Black 
Running around 
Picking up slack 
Nothing can stop it 
Nobody dares 
But it's merely 
An aimless wanderer 
Causing terror 
Unawares 

Greetings readers, I hope you're 
faJ.o-y.iitg thict x&&a& erf fche W ordea ter. 



But it looks like you've hit a stumb- 
ling block here — one of my_ stories. 
You know, people tend to think my sto- 
ries are bizarre and unreal. I beg to 
differ. What is a story other than a 
string of creative thoughts? And is 
not a thought as real as a tree? Do 
not thoughts exist? Wow, what deep 
questions. 

Well, since I have this space al- 
lotted to me, I had best wr-ii-v a story 



-6- 



sY 



D.tu\. -plevzeviTit- -&pr.tns ^Yi I decided 



All In The Mind, continued 

to Bak e UP a stor y . I figured it s^ '*£*£2,££ f Sfo^S^e^ 

be a monster story. The kxnd where a hor- 1J ; * /J ^ „__ ^ ,„.^ ^ 



rible alien monster intrudes upon normal 
day-to-day life and causes all sorts of 
trouble. In order to further amuse my 
readers, I thought it would be clever of 
me to have it take place in a setting 
they might be familiar with. I chose 
Jefferson Square. 

Well, that was a good idea. Now I 
had, to focus .things, a^itt \e . I figured | beautiful- heroine , right? .. 
-it-wuld be »conomica*-.xf- %he alien -gast | neeas a .JfJS -^nw— --•---.-. 

. .-i it tt On with the snow, 
trashed one store and not tne whole mall. 

Besides, people are reaching the point 
where they aren't awed by widespread fic- 
tional destruction anymore. 

So, one fine afternoon I found my- 



and she has a lot of fun — the kind of 
girl who wouldn't pay much attention to 
an eccentric young author like myself. 
But she's obviously unique in one way. 
She is beautiful. There is a difference. 
I won't bother to describe her. You read- 
ers can just use your own subjective stan- 
dards of beauty. But I know what she 
looks like. Ah yes, every monster story 



On with the 'sh"<5wV 

I figure the old man — I'll call him 
Edgar — is sitting in his trailer wat- 
ching a Cubs game on an almost antique 
black and white TV. It's a nice after- 



1 , . M+H „ ff noon, but the night before it had rained, 
self wandering around my would-be setting. ^ » 

I hiked back and forth from one end to 



So. the ground around his trailer is pret- 
I hiked bacK ana ior*n irom „«, «uu « t ' ddy t f course he's fairly well 
another, peering into every shop, seeking g^£ f^ nearby help . That , ; 
the perfect nlace for my monster to at- isc-iatea irqm any ue«« j / 



's 
But 



the perfect place for my monster to at- kind Qf story 

tack. Anyone interested probably thought ^ ^ ^ ^^ ex±st ±n relation _ 

I was staking out the place. Jefferson Square? Sorry, but this 

I even saw a couple of people I P fictional, 
know. But I pretended that I was unaware ^"^^ the i onstev . It is a huge , 

of them. This was business, not pleasure. nuraanoid gian t. It's slimy and 

After all, I could win 2 5 bucks for this. G J metallic green scale 

One of them was a girl from my biology sn apeless, blubbery blob 

class. She was standing openly in one of L.t.HL, or mouth vis 



Its 
There 



7 , , u are no ears, nostrils or mouth visible, 
the stores I was investigating. I don t possesse s one large eye. Naturally, 
think she saw me, which was all right. ^^ from Quter spacSe yhere else? 
Exchange of greetings would have dis- saucer silently i ands be- 

rupted my really creative train of thought., * fer from , s 
I wasn't so lucky with the other person. old man 

He was a kid I'd known in high school. something's up, is some inter- 

Back then, he'd been a clean-cut, straight^ that ^thing s_ p^ 

A student. That day, he needed a shave J^^SSLi* He cusses and takes 



pretty bad. His clothes were worn out. 
He ,was wearing ..a baseball pap. And he, ,, 
*- -was-«holding a can orf**f?©p-.' ? A 11 in all«, i * 
he seemed to have become more of a slob 
than me. He cheerfully warned me that 
some space creatures were out to get me 
as we passed each other. I thanked him 
for his warning — up until then, I had 
been completely unaware that there were 
some space creatures out to get me. 

I then went to my car and headed 

home. 

It was time to begin writing. I de- 
cided that my monster houlg wreck one of 
those fancy clothing stores that cater 
to women. Don't get me wrong, I don't 
object to fancy clothing. But it is so 
obviously symbolic of all that is trivial 
and artificial in today's society. It 
seemed to me that this store would be run 
completely by females, but owned by a 
male. That also may be symbolic. 

Now I needed characters. The first 
one would be an old man, sort of a bum, 
the kind of man who had lost more battles 
with life than he had won. I figured he 
should live in a trailer. I once spent 
some time traveling in a trailer with my 
aunt and uncle, so I know what it's like. 
My hero was also on welfare. Maybe at 
one time he'd worked -for Caterpillar 9 I. 
don't care that much. It doesn't matter. 



a gulp of beer. Unaware. 

The' horrible alien emerges from his 
vehicle Tl '11 say it's a he^, ; lo'dks around, 
spots the trailer, and begins stalking 
toward it. Nobody observes him as he 
sneaks alongside Edgar's home and peers 
through the window. He sees my protagon- 
ist and freaks out. Then he tears that 
trailer apart with his bare hands as if it 
were a box of Cracker Jacks. 

Luckily, Edgar served in WWII. Be- 
cause of this experience, he has some 
quick wits and reflexes. And since he's 
in fairly good shape, he runs for it. 
The monster, after shredding the trailer, 
takes off after him. They leave a dis- 
tinct trail across tne mud. Edgar is 
heading for the nearest place where there 
are lots of people who might help him — 
Jefferson Square. 

Let us now move ahead in time. 

I think I'll put myself in this 
story just to satisfy my ego. I'm going 
to be sitting in Long John Silver's Sea- 
food Shoppe across from the mall, casually 
munching on fish and chips. This way, I 
can be close to the action and laugh at 
my poor innocent characters if I feel 
like it. But I probably wontt. 

My heroine, I'm going to give her the 
unusual name of Alexandra, is at work. 



oe „«„„! She's helping an old woman look for dress- 
The other character would be a young ^ ^ ^^ her appear _ 

lady working in the clothing store. She ^ cost a lot of money, 

probably goes to college, gets fairly 

(continued) 



-7- 



All In The Mind, continued 



This old lady is the stereotype of the of Alexandra. He gazes up at her with 
old battle-axe. You know, the kind you al- blind, desperate eyes. "Help me, H he 
ways see in cartoons hitting her meek and gasps, just before collapsing completely, 
mild husband over the head with a rolling 'Landra is a bit confused by all this, 
pin. The poor old dolt probably works allSomething really bad must be coming down, 
day at some boring, executive job just so She casually looks up, straight into the 



It 



the wife can buy fancy clothes. This is 
how free enterprise exploits vanity. 

By the way, maybe I'll exercise a 
little vanity. In this tory, I think I'll 
drive to Lang John Silver' s in .a Rolls ; 
Royce. why* not, it's my damn story. I 
won't even matter that much if the alien 
smashes the car up a little, I got a 
whole fleet of them back at the mansion. 

Anyway, Alexandra is ringing up the 
old woman's purchases when she becomes 
aware of screaming out in the hallway. 
People are running past, consumed by a 
frenzy of fear. They're absorbed by it, 



face of fear. The extraterrestrial Cy- 
clops looks down upon her, standing si- 
lently like a sentinel. Now, Alexandra 
is scared. But now she has reason to be. 

Give her credit though, she doesn't 
scream or"flip 'ouT. "SE^Jifsf stare'sr-4- m 
back, overawed. The monster easily 
hoists up the unconscious Edgar and ex- 
amines him for a minute before letting 
him drop. Alexandra takes the oppor- 
tunity to quickly leave by the back way. 

The alien realizes she's vanished 
and flies ihto a rage. He literally 
wrecks the place. I know this is a 



totally mindless robots programmed by ter- cliche, but when he's finished, it looks 



ror. The battle-axe rushes to join the 
stampede. "Just another buffalo," Alex- 
andra comments wistfully. 

That's right folks. I've decided 
that my heroine should have other virtues 
besides physical beauty. She has a sense 
of humor, courage, and some curiosity. 
Wondering just what the masses are running 
from, she prepares to step out into the 
hall of the mall. 

But I'm going to cause he plan to be 
thwarted. Before she leaves the confines 
of her store, Edgar staggers in. Drained 
of energy, he falls to his knees in front 



like a "tornado has struck. ■■• Then he 
leaves the shopping center entirely. I 
see him crossing the parking lot from 
my vantage point. I' m shocked. I didn't 
think my creature would be so hideous. 
Dope that I am, I accidently eat a french 
fry before dipping it in the ketchup. 

Then the monster goes back to his 
landing sight and takes off for parts un- 
known. I'll be driving home in my Rolls 
when I see the saucer pass over the high- 
way. I wonder if the story will make 
the Herald News , or at least, the Blazer . 
Sure, sure. 

Aloha people. 



******** 



■*■'* 



r# .««.«« "j^yMfieft 

SOAP BUBBLES AND EXISTENCE 



fiWf '- ■"*' IIP* ■*'*** -M"V*JjJ. ■« ■ f -?y #**' 



A soap bubble in the wind 

knows not which direction it will take 

yet it exists — 

if only for a short time — 

and has no purpose 

but to float from here to there 

reflecting light in garish irridescence 

and, settling on a blade of grass, 

it rests awhile, moves on, 

and, finally, bursts. ; 



3 a t 



<r§ *«{*« 



We exist, 

thinking there is purpose 

only because we are able to think, 

and we remember 

only because we are able to reflect, 

but our thinking and reflections 

are also garish hues 

produced by an untimely accident 

some choose to call god's plan 

and others call the cycle of life, 

yet we too rest awhile, move on, 

and, finally, burst. 

We question the meaning of existence, 

and instead of just being, 

we ask why — 

which separates us from innocence 

and, probably, contentedness. 

Who is to say 

there "''is not*-— *■-■■■>•■<« ■<-»%•■ *■■■-■■ , ,.,. ., 

superior intelligence in bubbles? 



)f«)(C3(C'|(>|f'f' s r'f' 



-8- 



Marge Peterson 

ECHOES 

Words 

Spoken earnestly 

Hang in the air 

Waiting for understanding 

Waiting 



Hear 

Please listen • £•■ 

They are there ^, 

Wanting comprehension » 

Wanting 



Echoes 
Fade slowly 
Silent rejection 
Where are you 
Where 

lie******* 

Geri Harder 
GOOD-BYES 

Good-byes. 

Like Band-Aids coming off, 

So painful, 

But the faster you do it 

The less it hurts. 

And sometimes the scars stay 

Anyway. 

******** 



David Moore 
WANDERLUST 

The door is locked 

And I have no key 

There's a reason for this 

A reason you see 

Because there's no place here 

No place for me 

J just don't belong 

Jn any time _ : 

Or in any place 

So I'll just be running now 

Running along 

Until I'm gone 

I have a mind 
And yet I was blind 
All you could do 
Was respond in kind 

Help me 
Emotional pain 
Is such a strain 
Help me 

Nothing to gain 
Under these clouds 
Clouds without rain 

Always running 
Always afraid 
Always alone 
Always 

******** 



Judy Bel field 

^THS^PLASTIC^BEAD FANTASY 

Because I have people around 

who speak to me and expect answers, 

who make demands of my time and money, 

who touch me occasionally for whatever reason, 

I think that I exist. 

Were they all to disappear tomorrow, 
and I had no interaction 
but my own thoughts 
bouncing off the mirrors in my mind, 
would it be enough to convince me 
that I were not a figment of my own creation? 

But how could I create 

were I a fantasy myself, 
I would ask — 
and then answer, 
creation is only a word — 

as meaningless as existence. 

Am I a plastic bead 

that clacks against others in the wind 
as we hang on a precarious thread? 

And do I only think I hear myself clacking? 

******** 



-9- 



Judy Bel field 



EYES ALONE 

Tonight no part of me exists 

except my eyeballs, 

which seem greatly exaggerated in size 

because they pound. from within 

and scream their need for tears. 
Oh, I could cry so easily now into a pillow 

and I would wail and tear my hair 

and feel as if a crashing hurricane had possessed me, 

thrashing me from concrete walls to asphalt streets 

until I were battered beyond recognition, 

but even then ~ 

exhausted — 

I would not sleep, 

for there is an agony in my soul 

and I cannot find it to kill. 
Tomorrow in the sunlight 

my great green eyes 

will find it difficult to see. 

Swollen up and heavy-lidded, 

again they will remind me 
that they alone exist, 

******** 

Judy Bel field 

CHARADE 

I. spend too much time 

trying to dull my senses in alcohol. 
It doesn't kill the pain 

or even black its eye — ... 

there is only a several-hour delay, 
during which time, 
I think incoherently, 

which tricks me into believing 
I have no feelings. 
I. know this is a charade — 

yet I tip the glasses to my lips in rapid succession, 
impatiently awaiting stupor 

to cloud my head in catatonic cotton, 
hoping the next sip 
will be the one 
that kills. 



******** 



David ■ Moore 
HARD-CORE FATALISM 



Revelations playing games 
ALONG THE CRYSTAL SHO.RES 
Tearing down monuments 
THAT PROUDLY REACH THE SKY 
Teaching lessons that 
REFOCUS MAGNITUDE 
Toward the infinite 
JUST FOR' THE. PLEASURE OF IT 



So sing a shabby song 
As you think about the past 
As you volley your servitude 
From player to player 
In this game that cannot last 
Yet has gone on forever 
But don't you know that you've been 
Caught in the amber of eternity 
Spinning 'round and 'round a vortex 
Flushed down into the void 
■ Through the alleys of the 
Nightly Necropolis 
Where the prowlers stalk 
But- the trees don't walk 



******** 



-10- 



David Moore 

I AM THE VOID 

Darkness in the soul 
A big emotional hole 
As I wander the fringes 
Like a scavenger 

because 
There are no more games 
To be given names 
No more aimless dances 
Or messed up chances 

I am the void *^# 

Your God 

Masked by your personality 

Created by your failure 

Nurtured by your sorrow 

Look at this life 
Of psychic strife 
Or hear the song 
Of a lonely gong 

It ' s all the same 
A timeless thing 
Can't be tame 

and 
It will be a long, hard climb 
To the end of time 
To the end 
And around the bend 

Will that sorrow 
Be there tomorrow? 

******** 

Adriane Saylor 

THE GHOSTS IN, MY LIVING ROOM 

I resurrected Edith Piaf under 

the lamp by the window 

She came to sing of Paris and to 

get me out of the Thursday blues. 

With her she brought all the poets 

hung in the conspiracy to rid the world 

of passion. 

It was timely, her coming, just as 

Mae 'West and Marilyn Monroe departed 

for the ether of Friday; 

James Dean had paid his respects on Sunday, 

his lounging form hanging around just long 

enough to get my passion all stirred up; 

Enough to make you want to do your monkeyshines 

for me. 

They all had a party right there, 

in my living room; 

All of them glowing silver- fresh under the 

hint of moon-light they had brought with them 

for a little atmosphere. 

I'm afraid I wasn't very good company, 

I cried, you see, when I realized they had not 

brought the lady who sang the blues, 

just her imitation who tried all night to convince me 

that she was myself ... 

******** 
-11- 



David Moore 

RISE AND FALL 

When the vultures gather 
Over this haunted land 
The man in black will tell you 
That it's time to take a stand 

Above the stormy mountains 

And below the fiery sea 

Where the blood will gush in fountains 

And the demons dance with glee* — - 

Here's to final battle 

Won't you come with me? 

Bind your strength to mine 

So our souls can soon be free 

Go ahead now 

Vomit forth your brimstone 

Oh Great Dweller in Darkness 

We no longer care to heed your gaging call 

Go on with your show 

Blind us with your pyrotechnic delights 

Dazzle us with wonders beyond comprehension 

And if at last you do succeed 

We'll stand firm against you anyway 

So don't call us 

We'll call you . . • 

Collect 

Now the war is over 

But you'll give your hate to me 

And I'll be forced to sail a wreck 

Far across the sea 

Maybe there I'll find an island 

Where I can drink my tea 

******** 

Judy Bel field * 

DEATHGAMES 

* 

I ask the axeman 

to lower his hideous blade 

and cut out my soul with skillful precision. 
"Kill me now," 

I beg, 

knowing he will not oblige. 
Like the wicked queen, 

I tell the hunter 

to bring back Snow White's heart — 
only the heart is mine. 

He will slay a deer instead 

and return with the animal's core, 

but I will not be fooled, 

for I shall know, 

even as I see it limp and lifeless in his hand, 

it is identical 

to the one beating a requiem, in my chest. 
Axeman, hunter — 

one and the same 

continually cheating me of death 

which has already visited . . . 
but I cannot sleep quietly 
in the bedchamber of oblivion. 



».£** •- 



******** 



-12- 



Judy Bel field 

ALL I rfANT RIGHT NOW 

All I want right now 

is to slip into a kangaroo's pouch, 
hidden from eyes I cannot bear to remember. 
I want cushions for my heart to bounce upon gaily, 
and plugs for my ears 

to shut out the songs that echo in my spine. 
I want calico curtains in the country 
of another world in another time, 

^. ■ where jade fingernails » .. - •- - ..- ,^ .^ 

•*' draw gasps of awe ■ * 

instead of blood. 
I want sundimpled cheeks of transparent gauze 
and frozen smiles on sticks — 

two for a quarter from the ice-cream man — 
and razzmatazz monkeys 

tapping out tin tunes 
in a fallout shelter 

safely distant from the grand succession 

progression 
of sensation. 
Give me two icebergs and a Titanic, please, 
hold the mayo, 

and let me skip rope with a rock in my pocket 
and a one-way zipper on my brain. 

This poem's a ruse; 

a puzzle urJLrapuzzleable, 
impeccably unimpeachable — 
except for the gaps 

intentionally planned to stymie the psychiatric professors 

who promise words will soothe the savage beast 

when there are no words 

and reality is a subjective zebra — 

but I digress . . . 

Shall I tell you what I want 
or do I want too much? 

as*** • + ' .^j 

!((?© ■-' 9|C S|S 9|C 3|C *|C 3|C 5|S 3|C |g 

Simon 

SWIMMING, GLIDING, GRAY (MATTER?) 

Cooling water minnow eat with sparkle on my head. 

Kicking waves splash-flaps, whitely flecking translucence. 

Octomove, Mantaspray, crusty legging, flipper twitch. 

Oh, myi A savage consumer ripping a tear, out now, 

bye-bye . 

Many minnow eat and insides crabby envelopes. 

Yuk! A plant spit, badly bitter. 

(Buzzing bubbles) 

Touch, new; swimmer pal with reflect patterns checking all. 

A stone thin smile, gliding swift amongst a sticky mesh. 

Get from; no, refreshment is not far. 

Huggi not pals, no . . . (sound of sifting water gurgling 

skyward) . 

THE END (No brain)! 



******** 



-13- 



Geri Harder 

GIVE ME OLD CLOTHES ANYDAY 

Give me old clothes anyway 

Over new, 

Familiar, warm comfort I can slip 

Into. 

(Like you) 

And slip out of again. 

Give me braless and barefeets 

And old Chevy backseats, 

And your body to wrap around. 

I'll take this simple pleasure, thank- you, 

Late at night with the windows rolled down. 

I won't talk of love, 

This won't last that long. 

You don't need to know how I'll 

Miss you when you're gone. 

"You gotta go, I know," I say, 

Though it hurts 

To lie. 

Why can't you stay? 

Noi It's bad 

To be sad 

After the good times 

We had ... 

And the pleasure made up for the pain. 

Although the line was sometimes fine 

Between the two ... 

There have been others since you. 

They touch me but don't really know how, 

And they don't know what to say. 

I'm startin' to get this low-down -feeling 

That it's never gonna be the same. 

******** 

Judy Bel field 

LOSING FRIENDS 

I've heard it said 

that new friends 
can fill the gaps 
created by those who must leave: 
It's a lie! 
People simply cannot be replaced; 

individuals are always unique. 
And so, 

while I'm enriched 

by the specialness of a particular person, 
I am diminished by each departure — 
and these separations, 
instead of becoming easier to tolerate, 
as I grow older 

become more agonizing. 

******** 

Jan Allen 

WEED 

Dandelion stalk 

Stands erect, a phallus spent 

But still defiant. 

******** 



-l*f~ 



Judy Bel field 

CHANGES AHEAD 

I see them on the road 

with their thumbs out, 
beggin a ride — 

and I think I've lost my fear of hitchhikers. 
Need a travelin companion 
with new blue hair 
and calloused feet to match my own, 
so we can ride together 
to times unknown — ... 

'fore and aft. 
Pull the latch ■.-» 

and batten down the hatch; 
I'm forsakin this '66 Dodge 
for a hodgepodge I don't understand, 
and takin a leap to another side 

where there may be no ground 

but I don't care 

cause I'm tired of the 
same old sameness 

sayin the same old things — 

while there are moonbeams to climb 
and stars to explore. 
Take away the peanut butter 

that sticks me to this chair 
and give me grass shampoo — 

I know it's out there somewhere 

waiting to be poured on thirsty pores 

underneath a bleached-out shock of hair. 
Can't stay no more 

with the purple whore of boredom 
in an overstuffed loveseat •*- 

where there is no love — 
under a roof that sticks to my mouth 
like foul-flavored flour-paste 
that rots the gums 
and holds back tomorrow 
on a piece of gray construction paper. 
Gotta move, gotta go, 

Sotta flow with the changes ps* 

even though Dylan got lost on the way, 

along with the children 

who faded into business like their jeans — 

and I am almost transparent myself, 

along with the rest of the walkie-talkie automatons. 
I gotta break 

with the inevitable invisibility 

of living death, 

and spread out the picnic tablecloths again; 

Dance with the ants 

on the sap of some tree 

and find out if there is a thing called 

free. 

****** ** 

Geri Harder 
FOR DOGS AND DREAMERS 

Did you know 

That To to 

Never saw the green? 

Dogs lack color-vision 

They say. 

(It was Dorothy's dream, 

Anyway) 

Emerald Cities just shouldn't 

Be gray. 

******** 

-15- 



M. J. Crestman 
MONDAY WAS A CHECKER GAME UNFINISHED 

Monday was a checker game unfinished. 
Tuesday your bear claws held trump 

in a grizzly fisted game of draw poker, 
And you dared me to get in the game. 
But I didn't want to play. 
You scoffed and mocked and discarded my 

notion I'd even the score, 
Let alone get ahead. And I told you outright 
with a tightlipped smile that 
I did not want to play. 
So you laughed at my naivete, 
My cowardice, and eventually you picked 

apart my personality, and so 
I said, "I'm good at games." And if you'd 

have looked at my eyes, you'd have known 

that you had a worthy opponent, "When I . • 

know it's a game, that is," I said, acknowledging a challenge. 
And you wondered, but you had to know. 
So I played. 
And when the last deal bit into the pit 

of my stomach, I took a little bite on yours, and when 

the score was tied, another face sat in with a 

blinding smile, and charmed my resolve to laughter, 

I foolishly folded. Glad the game was over. 

Ztt:To'XTZ TalTnT^ th. Sottoii. hitting and fast and »ean - 

raping my senses — in a flashing scream of reality. 
You're good at games, too. And you're so good ^ 

because you have no rules. 
Well, let's see if I can shed a few 

for the occasion, I thought. 
I know what mean is. and a none _ 

Except for a few freedom years, had a tew noies in jr Fddip , s iacke t 

from 1 to 3, from 15 to 19, there's been too-warm coat, called °^ *^%* J*™* ' 
a mean thing spitting at his image of me. that you knew couldn't let you stay out 
Embarrassing me. Not respecting me. Not too long. I never gpt^to stay out long 
EVEN seeing me, the slow-eyed wonder and enough. But what I could do , was build 

• 4--;^ „r a n +h* £ifts here iust a snowman like nobody else s. ana xi 
appreciation of all the gifts here just f t Grandma » s old purple 

S 8 Efts &r&FZ%S* £«£ \*&*f •&*> 

I' love them so. Their smug look of arro- And anybody who didn't didn t love me. 
gance cause they can stay out longer than And there were a lot of them. And there 
I can - and see all the goings on, the were those who di dn' t care to look who 
little-boys' eyes when they plug in the had no time to look at something I did 
nose, specially if he's about 2 or so, and was proud of. And there were those 
the little girls' first fear and second who looked and didn't see. I m not sure 
love of falling down, then those liquid which was worse. There are these little 
pools of star shine at making angels in naggings that maybe I was wrong. Maybe 
the snow. Watching couples' loving. my snowmen and me weren't ^f*^*' 
Liking Ole Mr. Snowman's world, exclaim- some reason and I was studying on being 
ing at his view any hour of the day! Can hurt and pouting when I encountered mean, 
you imagine that? Being happy where you- Now whadaya say , how many mean kids 
're at any hour of the day? Ole Mr. Snow-snuck around your perimeter. Luring 
man's got it made of the only GOLD that around, unpredictable. Butch roped poor 
is. And anybody who' can SEE, can see old JoJo into smashing my snowman. And , 
that. But I cry for the children who'll I saw from the window and wanted to get 
cry when he slips and slides away. For the snow shovel and go beat Butch on the 
us, he was our first creation. Mine. I head. A lot. But I sat there insteaa. 
made him. And I made him grow to life- JoJo was retarded olow and sweet Al 
size under the workings and standbacks ways stood like a little boy waiting ox 
and energies inspired by no one but me. direction. In the ^f^^fj^ 
And I think that you probably worked til had gotten JoJo toplapn, a ^«££d 
you were sodden thrown and thvcvgh and while rxdxpff the ba , vole. B U would 
the cold night's sudden chill made you holler, "Now play with this hand, and 
Zl y°t jSSS L,. And von probably h*'d rai*e a hand, and JoJo'd play with 

(continued) 
-16- 



Monday Was a Checker Game, continued 

that hand. And I'd beenhidden under the mined, saliva dripping, the harmonica 
bridge, watching. Butch was about 15. neld between his teeth, headed right to- 
Jo Jo looked about 18, but he was ageless, ward us, watching the arms and the dirt. 
Somebody said he was 35« I was 8, going "Both hands," Butch shouted just at the 
on 9. And I thought, why Butch isn't so top of the hill. WHEEEEEEEE and Jo Jo 
mean. He's teaching JoJo to do two things flipped the bike and his back hit those 
at once. So I watched. Next thing I rocks with the bike crunching him. I 
knew, Butch was getting JoJo to ride fast-ran over and JoJo was mad. Kicked and 
er and faster. Then he pointed out a big squirmed his body over those cutting rocks, 
clump of dirt and taught JoJo to ride fastkicking finally, the bike off him. And 
as he could and hit that dirt and be air- he came up all at once, swinging his 
borne maybe 2 Or 1 seconds*. And JoJa's - fists and rjubbing his nose and growling, 
eyes would light xnto the purest, joyful" "Jo J c3 looked just the way Butch did when 
light" I "ever* saw. • And' I W&s TT&gglllig •toy*- •**©• -aearred everyone .away. ...Butch, stqod. on _ 
knees and laughing, cause JoJo was laugh- the hill and looked him over. "Tough 
ing. And I was beginning to like Butch break, buddy. You wanna try it again?" 
for taking the time. And wondering if JoJo held his fists tighter, his bloody 
maybe Butch didn't care about JoJo, and nose running, blood running from the 
if he'd take care of him playing over cuts in his face and his eyes were ready, 
there neath the bridge cause he They looked at each other a long time, 
could get hurt. And Butch was known as Butch took a step sidelong down the hill, 
a tough guy. The kind nobody messed with.and JoJo took a step forward, sidestepping, 
Ugly and mean, wide-chested and black- one, two, three. . .two three. Butch 
shirted, he could scoff and people would spat. 

back up with his words. I wondered about "You're not fair game, fella," he 
his power. I wondered just how mean is said and marched off. I watched JoJo, 
this guy? Then, he got JoJo to going looking up shyly at me every once in 
faster and faster and hit the clump and awhile and then shifting, 
play the harmonica with one hand and I "Boy have you got a bloody nose and 
saw the sudden terror as he came down look at that cut." I pointed to his fore- 
sideways and nearly fell, but recovered head. He touched it and looked curious- 
with looks of thankfulness and glee, then ly at the blood on his fingers, 
some pride. And I giggled and laughed at "Was he your friend?" I asked. He 
how he straightened his shoulders and just kicked the rocks and I laughed. He 
pulled himself up real proud. But he told saw me laughing and kicked them again. 
Butch he wouldn't do it again. "Nah," Then he ran, kicking rocks sidelong, 
shaking fast little jerks, looking down smoothly. And I was glad he did, too. 
and up hopefully. "You go -- you," he'd ^'e were laughing when Butch strode up so 
point. "You! Nan! Not me. :i So Butch bard and fast. I wondered if he'd get me 
patted him and got him to "just riding too. 

and taking turns playing the harmonica ' "You're tailing to a retard," he 
with one "haha at'S snout dhd"VSigfiar, " • '^ai#; -looking- directly at me. 
then the other, and sometimes so fast, "So what," I said, sloivly, looking 
JoJo nearly lost control in that mean old b n ck, scared, 

white gravel. But boy was he having fun. "You're wastin your time with this 
And the more fun he had, the more those dummy," he said. 

shoulders came back, the more he wiggled "Seems to me you just wasted a bunch 
up on that seat and straightened himself of your time teachin him somethin nice, 
up ~ then that gleam would nearly look then hurtin him with it," I said, 
like one I knew and now I scocted closer. "Oh yeah?" he said, r 'whadaya gonna 
I wondered if Butch was seeing what he do about it?" I looked at him a Ion- 
was doing for JoJo. And if he did, was time. 

he glad about it. And JoJo was having "Nothing," I said and eased back, 
so much fun, he went back to sailing over H e was bigger than me and that was the 
the clump. And Butch would holler, "this bottom line. Everybody knew his folks 
hand, this hand" and the sudden exchange couldn't do anything with him. He stared 
"WHE-OUGH, .JHE-OUGII," sent birds flying a long time and I wanted to run, but for 
under the bridge and JoJo'd hold the har- JoJo, I would stay. Maybe, I'm not sure, 
monica in his mouth, bear down and sail Suddenly, he said, "I'll get you," 
high in the air and landing just right. and he rambled off. I'd see him some- 
Now JoJo was headed toward the clump times after that and he'd laugh. I'd 
again and Butch turned my way and I saw seen him once mailing JoJo put his face 
his eyes. I jumped up and hollered, in the dirty canal, make a sound like a 
"JoJo," but he kept going, a long head motorboat til he nearly choked. Then 
start to gain power and Butch yelled Butch would let him up. JoJo put his head 
"this "hand," and turned to watch him. in the water to show he liked doing that, 
"This hand . . .this hand," and he'd and Butch had laughed. The canal sepa- 
point a fist in the air. "U'HE-OUGH, rated us and I hid behind a big tree for 
WHBE-- this hand," and JoJo looked strai- awhile and went home sick, 
ght and aimed at that dirt 1 , eyes deter- "* " ' 'Now, they were smashing my snowman 

(continued) 
-17- 



s 



Monday Was a Checker Game, continued 

and I couldn't stop them. 

"Nothing of consequence," grownups 
would say. And I never cried then,, But 
now, I do. Cause everything seems bigger 
than me. And I'm tired. 



But now I'm wondering if that's the kind 
of mean you are. 

I've been thinking about this: 
humility, arrogance and meanness. We've 



And now you're turning into a mean played all the games now, from "Aw, C'mon 
thing, too. So what ' s your story? Do Stanley" to Jo J o's harmonica. And we've 
you think Butch was teaching him a lesson seen the hands fly, the landing and the 
by yelling "both hands" on that hill? Do getting up mean. And we've each had a 



you think lessons have to be so mean? Youturn. 
figure Butch is saying "G©t tough buddy"? for. 
Or do you think Butch wasn't sure he him- 
self was so tough and he felt threatened 
by JoJo's imitation of him and his own 
tough show? So he had to know. He'd 
show him fun, then hurt him with it to 
see how mad he'd get, and what he was 



One trip around is all I'm good 



going to do about it. Well, that's what 
I figure. And I figure this: Butch. 
could have made him feel secure and warm, 
instead of always guessing when Butch 
would hurt him again. And the chance to 
be mean. But just how mean was this guy 
anyway? How many people would think that 
was great sport and laugh at the dummy? 
I think that's the kind of mean — once 
he found out what he could do to Jo Jo, 
and get away with it. With all the hor- 
ror stories we live in every day, you 
probably feel I've wasted your time with 
a bad guy abusing a dummy. Because he 
could. No other reason. Something to do. 



I don't want to play anymore. I 
am a worthy opponent, I believe, because 
other than varying of degrees, I see 
we have equal shares of humility and 
arrogance and I believe the world has 
made us mean. And I think you can get 
a whole lot meaner. And so can I. 

But not to me. 
x And not to you. 
'Neither one of us is "fair garne. n 

My sister saw Jo Jo at the hospital 
last yea3p. He's in his early 60's, she 
thought. But she cried and cried over 
poor old Jo J o. And do you know why? 
Even with his handicap, this man's eyes 
still shine the purest beautiful light 
she ever saw. And his openness and 
friendliness are still all his. And 
you can bet that he knows mean and in- 
different and indignant. But he didn't 
let the world take away his shine. 






Geri Harder 



FIRST BLOOD 

Today I tasted my first blood, 

I stabbed you, 

Then licked the wound. 

But not to heal, 

Just to feel 

How you must have felt. 

Just to taste 

What you've been tasting. 

Oh, the time that 

I've been wasting, 

Giving in, 

Stepping back, 

Never knowing 

The pleasure 

Of attack. 



FIRST TIME 

My defeat 
Was sweet 
As lemonade in summertime. 

I bled. 

You said 

I did just fine. 

I cried. 

You sighed. 

Now wasn't that fun? 

Sure I In fact, 
Looking back, 
I think I won. 



******** 



******** 



-18- 



Judy Bel field 

1969 OLD TOWN 1981 

There are ghosts in the empty courtyards: 

shadows of long-haired, barefooted children 
begging coins as they walk, 
smoking grass in the niches of shops, 
painting pictures on the sidewalks. 
Still there, the Royal London Wax Museum 
and Ripley's Believe It Or Not, 
changed only by inflated admission prices. 

„,.— ^ , — -'£he~&izarre Ba-zftar-, «••-•• *- »■ * •■ **•' •-■ - . — , - - - — . . 

once teeming with tourists 

seeking out the oddities of a generation, 
now admits a trickle of humanity, 
which wanders through a maze 

of tee-shirts, buttons, patches, earrings, 

drug paraphernalia, and sunglasses — 

much the same as then. 
There, among the wares, 

a silver-colored peace symbol hangs on a chain, 

clinking faintly in the breeze 

against chains suspending hundreds of new symbols. 

It lingers like a desperate woman 

clinging to a lover who no longer cares. 

The ghosts finger it with wistful eye, 

afraid to remember with their hands, 

lest the touch confirm a poignant death. 
The balloon men and the flower peddlers are gone. 
Windows which once showed 

fringed suede jackets and vests, 

leather wristbands, 

feathered headbands, 

and recycled bell-bottomed Levis til midnight 

are now metal-gated at five — 

and through the grating 

one sees silky print shirts and designer jeans — 
or the windows are bare and black, 

coated with the dust of disuse, 
.,,..._...™^.^ . . .„„ - an( i "r^flecTiohs of bearded smile s"and" painted faces' 

appear and disappear 

as quickly as flashbacks of dreams. 
Music permeates the air yet, 

but it is not Jimi Hendrix or Canned Heat: 
the purplehazed psychedelic acid 
has seeped into stone walls, 
where it can only be tapped 

by the ghosts who hear it whispering in tneir blood. 
Old Town is cancerous; 

parts of its once-vibrant body have already died — 

but the ghosts continue to walk its streets, 

floating gloomily through a wordless memory. 

******** 

Adriane Saylor 

THE LAST RIDE 

Ribbons of purple were just begin- for speed. The old woman frowned a bit, 
ning to slit the cerulean sky when the then smiled as one of the boys in a 
7:20 bus pulled up alonside of the bus noisy Mustang whistled at her and 
stop. It was one of the newer models, the sped away. She had been young once and 
ones that boasted of being whisper quiet, had loved the sound of a fast car. She 
Around it sped drivers cursing this in- remembered sitting next to Jerry Mai o vie 
trusion in their lane, the last lane of watching "Rebel Without A Cause." They'tf' 
traffic. Most of them were young; kids seen it three times in the three years 
with long hair *and' motors that burned gas- they went together. Jerry had given 
oline, the fumes escaping behind their her a ring, but she'd made him take it 
, ; ~carswaii<L- scenting the evening with a lust back because it was too- expensive, her 

(continued) 
-19- 



The Last Ride, continued 

mother had said. Her finger had never "Hey lady, I aint got all day. You 
forgotten the feel of that ring. They getting on or not?" It was the driver of 
were going to be married right after grad-the bus. He stared down at her with im- 



uation. They were going to elope. Jew- 
ry's parents were Jewish. They were from 
New York and spoke with an accent. She 
loved to be in their home. She loved 
all the things they had collected, and 
she loved the way Jerry's father always 
looked soft-eyed and friendly when he 
talked of "the old neighborhood." He had 
been a guard in a bank. He would make 
all of them laugh for hours telling them 
about all the various people that came 
and wentr ±n the t>an£.** Laughter* '5ame»eas- 
- ily-for<-him,-wnd^foT Kerry's mcrtl!ier,"»who 
always looked as if she were about to cry 
over something. Tney hugged each other 
a lot, and during their special holidays, 
they invited her in for cakes and wine. 



patience. He was young, but the hair 
that escaped the ponytail he had his hair 
in had strands of gray in it. So did the 
mustache that twitched above the thin 
rnouth. She lifted the bag of groceries, 
the handles of the shopping bag cutting 
into her fingers. Rolling his eyes 
heavenward, the driver heaved the bag 
next to a seat near his and then topk_.._ 
her money. He looked at it, then at 
her, a question crossing his face. She 
refused the 'transfer, he offered her 
and sai down- next io/her bag. _ It^was 
dark now. A sudden blackness had" melted " 
over the violet, and a thin moon danced 
in front of her in the window of the bus 
as they rode along. Her feet hurt in 



She never drank wine at home. Her parents her shoes. So did her hands and her 



didn't drink. They were devout Chris- 
tians and believed drink was the way to 
hell and damnation. She could still see 
Jerry smiling with her as he lifted the 
glass of wine to her over the crowded ta- 
ble in his parents' house. That had been 
the night he had told them of his plans 
to marry her. They had not been especia- 
lly happy, but they had not screamed at 
her, as her parents did. They had plan- 
ned to meet and drive to one of his 
friends' houses and there they would 
pick up the marriage license, purchased 
weeks in advance. She smiled to herself. 
Much lying had gone into that procure- 
ment. How they had schemed for love. 
From the friend's house, they would 
drive across the st§te line and be mar- 
ried without parental consent. She had 
even talked her mother into letting her 
stay out all night with the lie that she 
would be" spending 'the *night "at hir girl- 
friend '- » house*. *°Sut?h "schemes . * '* * 

They had been on their way when a 
truck had suddenly appeared as they 



back. The pain of age, the pain of be- 
ing alone with no one waiting for her 
at home but two cats. She had moved in- 
to an apartment about two years ago. 
The house had simply been more than she 
could manage. Also, her daughter and 
son had wanted to put her into an old 
people's home. Retirement Village, they 
had called it, telling her how wonderful 
it would be. She grunted to herself. 
How wonderful could mailing potholders 
all day and sleeping in a room with the 
smell of disinfectant and death around 
her be. She wanted to die with dignity. 
To be left alone to remember Harley and 
Jerry and her friends who had gone before 
her. She didn't want some nurse telling 
her what time to get up and reading to 
her. She wanted to drink her tea, and 
eat her cinnamon biscuits and watch the 
news in her own place. She wanted a 
place where 'Jerry's ghost and Harley' s 
ghost would "feel at-home. ..Sq, v she had 
rented the apartment above the bakery. 
Bvery morning she would go down and buy 



rounded a curve. Had it not been raining, fresh danish to have with her tea. 

they might have merely swerved to one side Sometimes she would talk with Mr. Neegan 

and after calming their nerves with the 



brandy Jerry had sneaked along, driven on 
to become man and wife. The only thing 
she would let herself remember was the 
crunch of the glass and the feeling of 
flying through the air, and then the ter- 
rible pain that came before -unconscious- 
ness. For years she had repeated that 
scene in her mind. Even after she had 
married Harley Labo and had four kids by 
him. After he died, she would sometimes 
sleep on the couch, afraid to sleep in 
their big bed alone. It always seemed 
as if he would come back. Like he'd just 
come walking back through the door, with 
that swinging, easy walk of his. She'd 
see his long, big body leaning over her, 
his short, rough fingers touching her in 
his way, his watery blue eyes smiling at 
her. Other times, she'd see Jerry, his 
dark hair blowing in the wind, like it 
did that night, when ... 



about his children or his dead wife, 
Sheila. He would save some butter cookies 
for her each week and sometimes they 
would go to the zoo on Sundays. 

Harley would have liked him, she 
thought as they rode through the night. 
The bus driver was checking the day's 
transfers now. She watched the tickets 
in his hands, thinking of Harley. His 
hands could make her sing the sweetest 
music she had told him once. That had 
been before the children, at the begin- 
ning of their marriage. She felt tired 
tonight, more tired than usual. Maybe 
it was the change of the weather. It 
had been unseasonably cold for the last 
couple of weeks, then today, it had 
suddenly warmed up. She !could be 
catching the flu, she thought ruefully. 
It was bad to be sick when you lived 
alone. Sometimes her sons and daughter 
went weeks without coming by to see her. 



•(continued) 



-20- 



The Last Ride, continued 

She sighed heavily. Sometimes she wished 
it were over. Life was too hard without 
someone to look after her. Harley had 
often said she'd be helpless without him. 
It had been a joke then, but now it was 
true. She managed badly. The bus driver 
had finished counting the transfers and 
was about to drive on. He was waiting 
for the light to change, when suddenly, 
he sped through the yellow light. In a 
moment, there was a horrible crashing, 
and the sound of someone screaming. Then, 
there was nothing. She felt hands lift- 
ing her, then softness. .. v/here was that 
singing coming from? It sounded like 
Harley. No, it was Jerry. He was sing- 
ing to her from somewhere far away. 

"Sweet little Susie, that's my little 
Susie ... H He sang on and on. His 
voice w^s getting nearer, and now, yes 
now, she could see him. His hair was be^ 
ing whipped about his face by the wind, 
and his dark eyes were smiling at her* 



"Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!" she said, seeing 
herself run into his arms. He scooped 
her up and kissed her. A long, sloppy 
kiss that seemed to last forever. Then 
he was spinning her around and around 
and around. She was dizzy, seeing every- 
thing rush by her. Her children, Harley, 
Jerry's parents, Mr. Neegan. She didn't' 
.care abou£ any of it, she just wanted 
to be with Jerry forever. 

"Mrs. Labo, Mrs. Labo, it's a girl." 
someone was saying. A girl, Jerry, she 
told him as he swung her; and I had 
three sons too. "Mrs. Labo * . .1 think 
we've lost her . . ." someone said. 
That was far away, and she wanted to 
go away with Jerry. He was lifting her 
now. Her shoes were falling off, and 
one stockinged foot was brushing the 
ground as he lifted her higher and high- 
er. Then there was only light and then, 
there was nothing at all. 



J. D. Guse 

POEM TO PAT 

Pictures at my Exhibition. 

Faces of lonely souls 

strewn across my inner memory. 

All have got my features 

and each one tells a story; 

by the gaze of my eyes, 

by the snarl in my lip, 

by the way I use half a smile 

to get things my way. 

There's the 

Child 

(Innocent — "I didn't know any better" look) 

and the 

Deviant 

(Fiendish ~ "I got away with it" look) 

and of course the 

Mature Personality 

(Macho — "Yea baby, I'm 25" look) 

So you see, 

my life is filled with more 

than the casual friend 

or the acquaintance/romance relationship. 

I pride myself 

on what I have 

instead of things I don't have. 

Because the things I don't have 

are the things I never will have; 

You 

Love 

and me. 

Happy Birthday Pat 

******** 



-21- 



Geri Harder 
DEFENSE AGAINST A NOSY NEIGHBOR 



"What are you doing?" she asked casually. 

"I'm writing a poem. 

Please leave me alone." 

"No!. I mean with your Life," she whined at me. 

"I'm not in the mood. Go, please. 

This is no time 

To define 

The Grand Design!" 

I get rather impatient with her, you see. 

"It IS the time; you're getting older." 

I watched her not answering, 

as her voice grew louder 

And her eyes got colder. 

Her lips swelled as her hair turned red, 

Like scarlet spaghetti and stood out from her head 

At odd angles 

In terrible tangles. 

Her skin faded to white and her nails grew long 

And pointed at me. 

They clicked as she clawed 

Rhythmically. 

Wheezing breath came in drawn out gasps 

As she filled herself up 

Like a giant water balloon 

Rippling like Jello 

Into every corner of the room. 

I wasn't afraid, she was making me ill. 

I wanted that gruesome grin 

Off of her face, 

Barging in here, 

Invading my space, 

As if she had all the answers to questions 

Unasked by me. 

Unwanted, unqualified, 

Advice for free. 

I tried to mentally block her out. 

Even tried those chants. 

But they didn't work 

^>o I had to act fast 

Before she swallowed me up 

Or choked me to death. 

I don't always have the power of pen, 

But thanks to Bic, I had it then. 

I poked, she popped. 

No joke, she stopped. 

She made a strange winding-down sound 

As she slipped in slow motion onto the ground. 

Next thing I knew she was back in her chair. 

Just as before, sitting there. 

But no longer smug. 

And leaving no puddle or stain 

On the living room rug. 

I got up, stretched and yawned. 

After which, 

I said to the bitch, 



"I've finished my poem 
Be I'll leave you alone.' 



******** 
-22- 



Sharon Odehnal 



PATRICIA 



Patricia, my dear, so close to ray heart 
Your voice makes the angels sing, 
I listen, my luv, for a song to start 
And my soul within takes wing. 

The lovely music of only your name 

Could calm a throbbing sea. 

And all is alive since you came 

To give yourself to me. *" 

• # ft"" 

Patricia, my sky, through which I soar 
On the wings of purest gold, 
I open myself and in do you pour 
More love than I can hold. 

The lingering scent of your perfumed smile 
Comes to me from a dream. 
And I, in darkness must search awhile 
To find your vaporous stream. 

Paricia, ray earth, me Eden in soul 
My paradise is in you. 
Alone I'm half, with you I'm whole 
And only you are true. 

The rivers of thoughts inside your mind 
Quench tnis thirsting flower, 
And I bloom in an ecstasy of a kind 
Not known by minutes or hours. 

Patricia, my love, you are never away 
For you live within my heart. 
Patricia, my love, you must always stay 
"For you're the linking part. 



******** 



Jan Allen 
WORDEATEH — CHILD'S VIEW 



Raisin Bran milk dripping down her chin 
Annie says, "What is a Lau anyway?" 

A mythical beast said to live in Africa 
I reply. 

Rolling eyes and puckered mouth respond 
"I'm never going to Africa then." 

"What is this," the other child asks. 
A magazine put out by JuCo students 
I reply in naste I am reading. 

More like KOOKO students she mutters 
and returns to her poems of glee. 



DO YOU? 

Do you follow your conscience? 
Does your heart lead the way? 
Do you hear vri-th your ears 
What it is that they say? 

f 

■■*•>• 

* Do you shiver at daylight? 
Do you run from the stream? 
Does your own reflection 
Cause you to scream? 

Are your teeth clenched in anger? 
Do your fists want to fight? 
Can you open your hands 
And reach for what ( s right? 

Do you hide in the hollow? 
Do you search in the maze? 
Is you life really cluttered 
With dark, wasted days? 

Do you hear what I'm saying? 
Does it cause you to fight? 
If you know where you're going, 
Then you'll get there alright. 

J. D. Guse 

IF THE DOG 

If the dog is man's best friend, 
then why is Pluto so far away? 

(home made astronomy joke) 

$ * # * * * 3fc * 



Simon 
RUDE INTERVENTION 

It's remarkable, this term 
with every onlooker pointing, 

Giggling with pain, enforcing it, 
and reminding all of their torment., 

Fingerprints are for the fingers, 

Not for contaminating consciousness, 
Or for marring the 'inferior' life 

(because it has no soul) 
Or for rearranging the furniture, 

But they do these things. 

(graceless aren't they?) 



******** 



-2> 



I want to be a monk 
I want to be a monk 
I want to be a monk 



Simon 

I WANT TO BE A MONK 

cookin 1 bread 
shavin' my head 
eatin' rice 
Gee J That's nice 

******** 

Judy Bel field 
I USED TO BE CRAZX 



breakin 1 bricks 
playin' with sticks 
lightin' candles 
wear in * sandals 



I used to be crazy; 

I'd spend whole days 

like they were milk money in my pocket 

when I was in the second grade: 

I'd be walking along on my way to school 

and decide to do cartwheels, 

forgetting about how thirsty I'd be at lunchtime 

and just like that, 

my money would be gone. 
And just like that, 
I'd lose days. 
When I was crazy 

I heard voices. 

They told me to do things I didn't want to 
and I'd have to argue with them, 
so I'd sit in corners of the house for hours, 
staring at the walls, 
waging battle with them — 
and somebody would walk by 
and ask "whatsamatter," 
but I couldn't hear 

because I was too busy inside my head. 
I used to sleep til 2 p.m., 
cry a lot, 
wander around, 

and think about colors capturing me. 
Now I lose parts of days, 
I ignore the voices, 
I only sleep til noon. 

When I wander around, I say I'm doing something 
and I pretend colors are flat. 
I used to be crazy 



but I'm not anymore — 



I have a paper to prove it. 






David Moore 



AN UNEXPECTED AFTERLIFE 



From a place that is not in our uni- 
verse, two incomprehensible beings ob- 
serve earth. They are not animal or plant 
and perhaps are not even alive in the true 
sense. But though their structures, 
minds and motives can not be understood, 
their function is clear. They are the 
cosmic judges who deliberate outside of 
space and time in a place devoid of light 
a nd natural laws of nature. What do they 
judge? The answer is simple. They pick 
between tnose who will live and those who 
will, die among the naUtitude-s of humanity. 



"We must pick again," said the 
First. 

"Why?" asked the Second. 

"Because we have to," was the reply. 
"Don't say anymore, you know as well as 
I that we must." 

"Very well," the Second answered. 
He had done this for endless ages and 
he was bored. "Go ahead and begin." 

The First paused as if surprised at 
his comrade's devil-may-care attitude 
about something so important as life and 
death. He was silent for quite awhile. 



(continued) 



-2*f- 



An Unexpected Afterlife, continued 

"I shall let you pick," said the Se- 
cond, breaking the silence. 

"You know it must be made by both of 
us," the First responded. 

Together they sent their minds to 
earth. So powerful were these minds that 
the job was done quickly and easily. They 
probed every corner and cranny of mankind 
to find the right choice at the right 
time. It was done almost instantly, but 
every single living person on earth was 
considered. 

"These are my choices," stated the 
First. "That old man with the heart con- 
dition, the lady with cancer, the man who 
was shot, the suicide, the ....." 

"Oh, shut .up I" snapped the Second. 
"Take the third one. What does it matter 
anyway? Be done with iti Kill him." 

"It's your turn, you know," replied 
the First. 

The Second made a sound much like 
that of an angry animal, then he concen- 
trated for a moment and the task was fi- 
nished. He relaxed, happy that it was 
over for the moment. 

"We must pick again," said the First 
and it began again. 

Life had often been a pain, he knew 
that for a fact. It had been dull, it 
had been terrifying, but sometimes it 
had been fun. He certainly had not want- 
ed to die so young, not if it meant end- 
ing up in a place like this. 

He drifted in a cool and dark place 
of weightlessness. There was not the 
sligntest ray of light. He could feel 
nothing, save for a strange tingle along 
his spinal nerve cord. He knew he was 
dead, no doubt about that. But what was 
his physical condition? Just a mind 
floating in limbo? A bodyless brain? 
He gave up. It was useless to speculate. 
He became aware of two other minds near 
him. But unlike him, they could communi- 
cate. He tried to scream and get their 
attention, but seemed to have no mouth 
to do it with. The two beings paid no 
heed as he continued by. But then, just 
as he could barely detect them any long- 
er, a voice rang out to him in the 
nothingness. 

"We must pick again," said the first 

voice. 

The second being seemed not to hear, 
but instead called out. "I'm truly sor- 
ry human! I pity youi" That was the 
last tning he remembered for quite a- 

while. 

When awareness returned, he again 
had his body and light to see by. He 
found himself seated in a golden throne 
before a great table of food. However, 
tnis great feast did not hold his atten- 
tion for very long. 

Across the table were three weird 
creatures. One was human, but that hard- 
ly affected" bis strangeness. He wore a 
black mask over his face with two bright, 



intelligent looking eyes staring out at 
him from tie eye-holes. He wore a top 
hat and a black cape with a silver lining. 
He was sitting on an iron throne. At 
his left, sitting like a faithful dog, 
was an animal that could only be describ- 
ed as a green-scaled dragon. It had one 
eye and two golden horns atop its head. 
On the masked man's right, stood still 
another weird being. It was totally 
black, a blackness that soaked up the 
light itself. The head was a sphere 
of black and three crimson eyes observed" 
the dead man unblinkingly. The thing's 
body was hidden beneath a black cloak. 

"Mot what you expected of the here- 
after, is it?" said the man politely 
tipping his top hat. "Allow me to intro- 
duce myself. I am called Hein." 

The dead man stood up, shuddering 
slightly, and struggled to get control 
of himself. Then he asked in a calm 
voice, "Are you Satan?" 

"No," answered the other, "I just 
told you that my name is Hein." he sud- 
denly laughed. It was not an evil laugh, 
just one of amusement. "I just realized, 
sorry. You're trying to fit this situa- 
tion into your religion, aren't you?" 

The dead man sat back down. Hein's 
sudden outburst had unnerved him even 
more. "Yes," he finally admitted in a 
low whisper. 

Hein continued. "Did it ever 
occur to you that there were many re- -- 
ligions on earth at the time of your 
death? The Christian religions, Islam, 
Hindu, Buddhism, and even such things 
as devil worship. Don't forget the re- 
ligions of the 'past, those of ancient 
Greece, Babylonia, Egypt — all of these 
and many more had many devout followers 
of great faith. Surely you did not 
think that all these many, many beliefs 
could be correct in their assumptions 
about here. After all, how can you know 
anything about a place you have never 
been to and nobody has returned from?" 
Now it is a common fact that peo- 
ple do not like to be told that their 
beliefs are false, and some of them 
will get very hostile toward you if you 
say such things. But the dead man con- 
trolled himself and countered Hein's 
point. 

"I knew that, but I have often 
thought that each religion contains 
part of the truth, and that if you can 
pick out this fragment of truth from 
each one and put them all together, you 
will see tilings as they really are." 

Hein considered that for a moment. 
"That is a clever idea. Tell me, did 
you ever try to put the truth together?'' 

"I wanted to very much. But the ._ 
dull concerns of day-to-day living- 
started to dominate and I found I had 
little time." 

"That's awful I" exclaimed Hein. 
"You could have done the world a great 



(continued) 



-25- 



An Unexpected Afterlife, continued 



service. But that's the way of society, 
always stifling those things that can help 
it the most and encouraging that which 
weakens and eats away at it. Oh, well, 
too late for you now and even if you had 
had the time, you might easily have pick- 
ed out the wrong truths, or put them to- 
gether wrong, and messed it all up." 

"I knew that too, that's probably a- 
nother reason I never really got started." 
"You also died young," stated Hein. 
The one-eyed dragon looked up at 
Hein and growled. The dark thing blinked 
all three eyes at the same time. A clock 
struck ' thirteen — an unlucky sign — 
and Hein glanced around nervously. 

The dead man also looked around and 
for the first time became aware of how 
strange the room was. The clock that had 
just struck was behind him, a typical ex- 
ample of a grandfather clock. The walls 
were painted dark green. The floor had a 
thick green carpet on it. Objects of art 
were all over the place — sculptures on 
tables, paintings on the walls. The dead 
man's first impression was that some ec- 
centric millionaire had furnished the 
place, for all the art works looked like 
classic masterpieces that any museum would 
have paid thousands for. But there was 
something terribly wrong with the room. 
Something should have been there that 
wasn't — something that he had learned 
to take for granted so much that at first 
he didn't miss it at all. The room had 
no doors or windows. There was no escape. 
"Don't worry about it," advised Hein. 
"When the time comes, you'll get out. 
Just relax, admire the furnishings, have 
some of this fine food." 

The dead man looked over the feast 
before him and sighed. "I don't even 
know what any of it is. How about a 
steak and some wine?" 

"Don't like the fancy stuff, do you?" 
asked Hein. "Very well." He looked at 
the dragon. "You heard the man, Bargesta." 

Barge sta, the dragon, nodded its 
head and raised its right front foot. 
Its single eye gleamed with a strange 
light, and the table top was engulfed by 
a swirling vortex of green and red 
lights and colors. When the beast put 
its foot back on the floor, the vortex 
vanished and all that remained on the 
table was the requested food. 

"You liked pets when you lived, and 
you shall have one in your death," stated 
Hein. "Before you eat, I want you to get 
up and come here." 

The dead man put down his steak 
knife and did as he was told. 

"Put your hand on the table," in- 
structed Hein. 

"What are you going to do?" 
"You'll see." 

Hein suddenly pulled out a large 
knife from inside his cape and chopped 
off the dead man's little finger. He 
then fed the fijagei- to Bearge&ta. 



"Now he is your pet, faithful to 
you for all eternity. He will serve 
you and nobody else. He can use his 
power to get you anything you want, ex- 
cept for two things. It's beyond the 
scope of his ability to give you your 
freedom, or bring others here to you," 
Hein explained all this slowly and care- 
fully, so that there would be no mistake. 

"That's nice, but what about my fin- 
ger?" asked the dead man. He looked 
down at his hand and gasped in surprise. 
His finger had grown, back. 

"One of the advantages of being 
dead here," stated Hein. "Now then, 
just one more thing. Look at that paint- 



ing." . ,. 

The dead man looked at the painting 
that Hein was pointing to. Basically, 
it showed a gigantic monster standing 
on two huge elephant-like legs. Out of 
its body sprouted a multitude of arms. 
Its head was an irregular blob with 
blazing green eyes shining out. All a- 
round it were hundreds of tiny figures. 
People. The thing's feet and hands 
were covered with blood and crushing 

them. 

"Good God!" exclaimed the man. 
"What maniac painted that horror?" 

Hein smiled. "I did." 

"Oh, sorry. Don't take it person- 
ally*" x.. ■, 

"I don't. Now for a few final words. 
You shall be confined in this room for 
several thousand years until the living 
human race has either exterminated it- 
self or been exterminated. You will be 
alone, except for Bargesta." 

"You're going now?" the dead man 
asked. 

"Yes " 

"But 'you can'ti You can't leave me 
alone for the rest of eternity! " said 
the dead man. 

"But I have to. It's my job," an- 
swered Hein. 

"No I" shouted the dead man. With 
one final effort he grabbed Hein's mask 
and pulled it off. Hein was no longer 
there. He had simply and completely 
vanished. The dead man gazed down at 
the mask he held. "I knew he could 
get out of here," he moaned. 

Suddenly, there was a deep, resound- 
ing laugh from behind him. He whirled 
around to see the dark thing with the 
tnree crimson eyes shaking as it made 
the sound. 

"Shut up you damnable hellspawnJ" 
shouted the dead man. He leaped for- 
ward, but the thing easily avoided him. 
He hit the floor hard, and by the time 
he had gotten back up, the dark thing 
had also vanished. -^ 

For a few moments, he was silent. 
He looked around his tiny environment 
and contemplated it carefully. The 
clock struck fourteen, and the dead man 
started to cry. 



(cont.lni.ied) 



-26- 



An Unexpected Afterlife, continued 

"Forever I" he moaned. "Nobody to 
talk to. So lonely I Please, I need some- 
one to talk to." 

"That wish has already been granted," 
announced Bargesta the Dragon. 



******** 



Jan Allen- 

HELL 

1-55 is the artery into the heart of Hell. 

Sodium vapor lamps cast an eerie pall upon the belching factories 

As they ooze their foul excrement into the aching air. 

I breathe deeply only after I am at home ~ a tiny clean and 
healthy cell among the cancerous industrial growth. 

Once, to savor an especially pleasant morning, I reached my tongue 
to touch a dew drop sparkling on an elm leaf. 

A surprise of bitter- sulphur- taste filled my mouth and reminded me 
that even my home is a part of the vast and sickly whole, 

******** 

Judy Bel field 

WHEN THERE WAS GOD 
OR 

-PROLOGUE FOR AN UNWRITTEN NOVEL 

When I was eight years old, there mate and her family." 
was a God. I cried regularly on his I stared at Charlene that day and 

great invisible shoulders, begging for- envied her. She wasn't breathing, but 
giveness for my sins, because I wanted to she looked so pretty. I knew she was^ 
go to heaven. I prayed for a disease to with Jesus because Sister Ralph said He 
rot away my feet/ so I could suffer like loved all His good little children. 
St. Theresa, but I knew God would never Charlene 's mother sat in a corner crying, 
favor me that way because I was so bad: looking so old and completely empty. 
I told lies and -I stole, among other Charlene couldn't move any more, and she 
things, an Easter-egg coloring kit from looked like an oversized doll whose eyes 
the corner grocery store, and I had im- would never open again. I wanted her to 
pure thoughts. But worst of all, I mas- get out of that coffin and say it was 
turbated. I was always going to be better, all a joke, but I knew she wouldn't, 
but somehow it never quite worked out. There was something very final about the 

There were infrequent times when I situation, something very final and em- 
was sinless, and then I'd beg God to send barrassing. I felt as though we were 
an alcoholic driver to dispatch me into all staring at something private, some- 
Paradise before I transgressed again. It thing we had no business witnessing. It 
was so hard to be good like Charlene was as if Charlene were taking a bath, 
Conway. Charlene was buried in her Com- and we were all peeking through the 
munion dress after some alcoholic driver window — only she was dead, which was 
had run her down. She was wqked in a so much worse. "\ 

white casket, and we all had to visit the I started thinking about worms 
funeral home and say the rosary for her crawling over Charlene' s Communion 
soul. I didn't know why, since Sister dress, about them wriggling through her 
Ralph Marie had told us Charlene was in eye sockets. But Charlene was with 
heaven. In the classroom before we went, Jesus, wasn't she? Her soul was anyway — 
she told us about death and funeral homes, it didn't matter that her pretty white 
She wanted us to know what to expect. dress would turn yellow out there in the 
Death was something we already knew about, cemetery where Charlene 's body would 
I began to feel panicky and nauseous. I spend the rest of eternity alone. It 
told Sister Ralph narie I didn't feel didn't matter that she couldn't ever 
good and did I have to go, but she'd skip rope again, or get tar all over 
made me ashaoft?^ when she said something herself in the summertime when the street 
fwzruy .tZhtuC "respect for a fellow class- crews repaired the potholes. 

(continued) 

-27- 



When There Was God, continued 

Charlene didn't tell lies or steal 
Easter-egg coloring kits or have impure 
thoughts. I was certain she didn't mas- 
turbate — it was unthinkable. She was 
with Jesus. He loved her because she was 

good. :",•; -, 

I wondered if He could possibly love 
me after I threw up all over the carpeting 
at the funeral home. I tried to hold it 
-back, but I just couldn't control myself. 



I knew Jesus was disgusted, and there 
wasn't a chance I'd ever make it to 

heaven. 

I was destined for hell from the 
moment I first discovered there was one. 
And surely there was a hell, just as 
there was a Jesus — and that huge, 
mysterious man in black who kept trying 
to kill me in my dreams. 



******** 



David Moore 



MAZE OF CONFUSION 

A thousand angry penguins 
Waved their bloody swords 
And then with glee 
They wiped them clean 
'gainst their tuxedos 



W T 



*L. 



h 



I looked toward the Mountains of the Moon 

During a pleasant day in June 

Thinking of what I could have had 

It made me rather sad 

Twisted sorrow will drive me mad 

Look to that star 
Ignore the rat 
Follow her car 
Watch out for the cat 



If you follow life's stream 

Entranced by the gleam 

You may spot a neat fish 

And my how you'll wish . . . 

God how you'll wish 

You could swim with that fish 

Into a sea 

Of colorful glee 

8 VL 

\ 
Don't take it hard 
Just pick a card 
You can't win 'em all 
Just give us a call 
If you want to play ball 

******** 



IT NEVES ENDS 

Waivering shadows on the wall 

Are the cousins to 

Hooded memories marching in procession 

These are the silent sentinels 

Keeping vigil over what might have been 

And still could be . . . 

And they are teachers 

Bearing great wisdom 

They sing silently 

Saying softly to me 

"The peace you seek 

Is the peace you cannot have" 

As the gateway to infinity closes 

Leaving me alone 

Without hope 

Without and 

Outside 

Victory sunshine 

Won't shine on me 

For the twilight has fallen 

And the clouds, still remain 

Making peace of mind a hollow sham 

Projected by hope upon the mists 

A concept to be exiled 

By the lightning bolts 

Of the Great God Reality 

Who laughs as He reveals 

The Meaning of Life 

In a voice of thunder 

"Two souls apart 

Racing down a highway 

In battered automobiles" 

He rumbles mockingly 

And the gentle breeze 

Whispers a reply 

"Look. for the land 

Where none command" 



******** 



Simon 

RANDOM GENERATION 



SpitS Spati 

Herei There i 

Triggering temerity, 

Leaving excremental monuments, 

in such haste as to suffocate descendants. 

I wonder, how fast the brakes will be applied. 

An instant? A day? A decade? An eternity? 

There is a point at which your waste is too large 

for your belt. 

******** 



-28- 



Judy Bel field 

IT IS THE DAY AFTER THE BOMB 

It is the day after the bomb. 
I sit alone in the rubble 

in the so silent silence 
where only an occasional fly bizzes by 
in the thick, dead stillness. 
Dali was right, I think — 

the insects will endure. 
I hear familiar voices inside my head 

and the songs that foretold the end 
and the theme from "On the Beach" — 
and those imagined sounds 
make the silence more silent 
as it presses in around me, 
sucking out my breath 
like tropical summer humidity, 
which will see no relief with nightfall 
or the rainy season. 
I am afraid to move — 

the sliding of my leg 
through the crumbled mortar and debris 
would send an unbearable crash through the air. 
But I hear breathing J 

coarse and rasping, 
echoing to the horizon and back, 
and I hold my own 
so I may listen more intently — 
but it stops 

and resumes again when mine does. 
This isn't real, I think: 

I'm watching myself in an episode of "The 'Twilight Zone 
or it's a dream I cannot control. 
I close my eyes and feel tears, 

but will not open them again 
until I awake 
or die. 



Sharon Odehnal 

THE ROAD'S END 

It seems so long ago in that far off place 
With a lake dressed in emerald green 
That a little girl had her dreams to chase 
Amidst a forest so dense and serene. 

The majestic Birch tree's towering on high 

And trimmed in a spider's lace. 

The lovely Owls and Eagles would fly 

In a pattern she would trace. 

The Bass and Trout leaped high in the air 
Sending circular ripples to shore, 
As she -aligned in delight and would stare 
Always hoping to see one more. 

The Chipmunks and Groundhogs ate in her hand 
And she brought them a lunch everyday. 
The Firefl es and Crickets danced on the sand 
And she'd smile at them on her way. 

The winding roads had such treasures to find 
Like nuggets of gold and an arrow head. 
And it seemed to her it was silrer lined 
te jshe r d follow to where it led. 

(continued) 



I 



The Road's End, continued 

She • d wade in the slime with her naked feet 
And squeeze the mud through her toes. 
Then she'd chase the frogs that had leaped 
Over rocks that were set up in rows. 

Chasing her dreams through Butterflies and sand 

She followed those roads to their bend, 
- And now she's wandering again through this land 

* Older and seeking the roapd's end* • « 

He******* 

David Moore 

AMBERCROM AND BEYOND 

I just could not believe that it existed. How could such a thing exist in 
real life? Tis naught but madness. Oh. Pardon me. 

-Ozfiz de Psyche 

So so so 

Off we go 

Running down halls 

Rushing cross streets 

Taking big falls 

Under large stamping feet 

I'll play your game 

But I'll have to cheat 

I'll still lose 

But I can't beg or choose 



-A. X. R. 



Alexander Xavier Raxton opened his 
eyes, torrents of tears trickling down 
the sides of his face. Still half asleep, 
he captiously shouted at his window shade, 
through which the golden dawn slowly 
seeped. 

"My God, my God! Our souls are all 
incomprehensible creatures! They try to 
reach out to each other with a multitude 
of tentacles. (Perhaps a metaphor for 
feelings and emotions?) They seek to in- 
tertwine and journey through the Seas of 
Life together. But I am woeful, for my 
tentacles are malformed and mutilated!" 

A voice, distant and muffled, seem- 
ing to come up from some netherworld be- 
low, replied to Alexander's aside. 
"Shut,- up you goddamn freak or I'll call 
the goddamn loony bin to come and take 
you away!" 

Those hostile, unpunctuated words 
sunk into Alex's fogged over brain and 
brought him into a normal state of wake- 
fulness. He sat up in .his orphaned, 
twinless bed and looked around his scum- 
my one-room apartment as if seeing it for 
the first time. What a mess it was. 
What a mess. Alex smiled, He felt at 
home here for some reason. He had never 
felt at home anywhere else. He got up 
casually in order to get dressed. This 
week's clothes were draped over a chair. 
One of the chair's legs was shorter than 
the others. As he made his way to that 
chair, Alex, whose legs were almost ex- 
actly the same length, was careful to a- 
void the stacks of neatly typed papers on 



the floor. It was poetry, most of it. 
Alex styled himself a poet — a star- 
ving artist who worked with words in- 
stead of "paint. Indeed, the only impor- 
tant item he owned" was a junky typei^ri- , 
ter. 

Once dressed, Alex left his home- 
land and sauntered down the smudgy hall- 
way to the bathroom. He minded not. 
Compared to some of the others, he had 
a luxury flat. It even had a sink! And 
truly this was his lucky day. A miracle 
had occurred. There was nobody waiting 
to use the toilet! He entered and locked 
the greasy wooden door. 

He sat on his throne and surveyed 
his domain. "With the intensity of a 
scholar going over some ancient text, 
he scanned the walls for new graffiti. 
Alex had painfully memorized the location 
and wording of every bit of ghetto wit. 
Sure enough, three new lines had ran- 
domly been added to the weavings of the 
obscene tapestry: 

DOGFACE BARNES EATS SHIT! .' .' 
SALLY DOES IT FOR FREE 
(and, most original of all) 
FUCK YOU 

Alex sighed, his fellow writers 
were so unimaginative! Oh well, not 
everybody can achieve greatness with a 
penstroke 5 '. He took out his felt- tip 
and left his mark on the world in three 
lines: 

TARS BEN BARDY MUDDER SORE 
THARS BIN A BLUBBY MOIDOR SIRRAH 
THERE'S BEEN A BLOODY MURDER SIR 



(continued) 



-30- 



Ambercrom and Beyond, continued 

They were bold, dark, large letters. 
Not even a casual glance could miss them. 
Alex snickered, finished his business, 
and returned to his apartment. It w a s 
time to prepare for his sneak preview of 
the end of the world. 

Put on a dirty red bandana. Attempt 
to comb the tangled hair. Brush the yel- 
low teeth. Look in the cracked mirror . 
Intelligent grey eyes, set in an a- 
verage looking face, gazed back through 
John Lennon glasses. A mass of reddish 
hair and a bushy beard dominated the re- 
flection. How long since he had a hair- 
cut? 

"My friend, you look like a harmless 
junkie. But in this neighborhood that 
aint a bad thing to look like, is it?" 

Then, overly steal thful, he left his 
home once again and crept up the slime- 
brown stairs to the floor above. He look- 
ed around upon arriving, was the coast 
clear? Strange idiomatic expression — 
what coast? This was the third floor of 
a slum. He reached a door with peeled 
paint that looked like all the other 
doors with peeled paint in the building. 
Except a peculiar little sign hung on 
an unusually shiny doorknob. Here is 
what the sign said: 

IF YOU WANT TO HAVE AN HONEST 
TO GOD MYSTICAL EXPERIENCE 
JUST KNOCK ON THIS DOOR 
Alex looked around again. Then he 
knocked six times loudly. Hopefully not 
loudly enough to disturb any nonessential 
personnel. The woman opened the door — 
a response programmed into millions of 
people on the planet earth. Yellow hair, 
blue eyes, she was slightly taller than 
Alex. Blonde bombshell, Aryan ideal, a 
Nordic Valkyrie prepared to collect the 
souls of the warriors. 

"It's about time you got here," she 
said in a melodious, yet impassive voice. 
"When someone offers to show you a sam- 
ple of cosmological entropy — the pro- 
cess that shall undo the reality of our 
universe in several billion years — it 
isn't wise to be late." 

"I'm sorry, Miss Lloyd. I over- 
slept," Alex meekly replied. 

"VJell, come on," she said, stepping 
out of her apartment and locking the door, 

"After you," Alex responded cour- 
teously. 

Cut To: Street Scene 

Raxton and Lloyd walking along the 
sidewalk, among the lower classes 
(You know, the people who don't get 
their fair share of anything, ex- 
cept kids) 

Contrast: The walks of Lloyd and Raxton 
Lloyd rapid, confident stride. 
Holds her head up high. Briefly 
glances at nearby people to ascer- 
tain if they po^a. J a_passiKL^ threat. 
Raxton, slower, relaxed pace. Seems 
,ruviijf L n-^!il<5 walking fast. Likes 



to look up and down and around. 
But not at other people. Trails 
behind Lloyd, who dislikes slowing 
down in order not to lose him. 

"You walk too slow." 
"You walk too fast. Besides, I'm 
in no hurry." 

Later: 

Raxton: (motivated rudely by curiosity 
and a need to be amusing) "Tell me, 
Miss Lloyd, what's a girl like you doing 
in a place like this?" 
Lloyd: (rather annoyed) "You don't 
seem very impressed by the fact that 
you're going to get a preview of the end 
of all that is and ever was." (She 
cleverly evaded his question.) 
Raxton: (Successfully sidetracked) 
"I've visualized the end of the universe 
thousands of times in hundreds of dif- 
ferent ways. I doubt if what you're 
going to show me can transcend the po- 
llers of my warped imagination." 
Lloyd: (Sighing softly, somewhat impa- 
tient) "But this will be real." 

And still later: 

Raxton: (Motivated by a desire felt 
by .many males — a need to somehow im- 
press Miss Lloyd) "I'm actually rich. 
I only live in that one-room pig- sty 
because I'm a sensitive intellectual 
and an eccentric artist." (Pauses, 
waits for reply.) 

Lloyd: (Impassively neutral) "Fasci- 
nating." 

Raxton: (Thinking she doubts his word) 
"Hbnast! I inherited a comfortable mid- 
dle class existence. But I dumped it 
all, sold everything. I got around a 
hundred thousand dollars jammed in a 
bank somewhere." 

Lloyd: (Pretends to yawn) "Tell me 
Mr. Raxton, how many of your works have 
been published?" 

Raxton: (Embarrassed, feeling that he's 
somehow been outwitted) "Well, none 
actually." 
Silence . . .until finally: 

The old market district, that's 
where they ended up. Good God, the 
. streets down there were still brick i 
Lloyd paused before the entrance to an 
inconspicuous little shop. The sign 
above the door read thusly: 

AMBERCROM BOOKSTORE 

Raxton held the door open for Lloyd, 
She politely said, "Thank you," as she 
entered, a purely mechanical response. 
Look around — books stacked everywhere. 
On floors and shelves. Books of all 
sorts. Hardbacks and paperbacks. Fic- 
tion and non-fiction. Fantasy and fact. 
Science and pornography. And the occult, 
of course. Alex was truly awed by the 
vast numbers of books that he had in- 
tznidcd upon. The place was also fur- 
visOted with r?r» jzntxqti£>- tvifih vejgXJst&T i 
a tnicldl^wi^d man, and a plain looking 



(continued) 



_^i 



Ambercrom and Beyond, continued 

young lady. The latter two were comfort- 
ably relaxing on old easy chairs. Alex 
took another glance at the young lady. 
Plain wasn't the right word for her after 
all. She was rather attractive. But she 
certainly looked plain when compared to 
Miss Lloyd. Thess were the people who 
held the secret to the annihilation of 
reality? And the government thought it 
was so powerful with all those nuclear 
warheads. Tsk-tsk. w ...J ( 

** *Sllo*w me to introduce '".Reverend 
George Porter and Miss Pegasus. They run 
this place," spoke Miss Lloyd casually. 

"Reverend? 1 ' was Raxton's only re- 
sponse. 

"Ex-reverend, actually," said Porter 
in a friendly manner. "I'm-ah-sort of 
retired." 

"Oh," was Raxton's only response. 
Then, without even being invited to, he 
found a chair and sat down. Lloyd sat on 
the floor, even though there were still 
a couple of empty seats. Nobody said any- 
thing for awhile. 

Finally, Miss Pegasus spoke up. 
"Well, we don't have all day. Shall we 
begin the demonstration?" 

"Are you ready for some cosmological 
entropy?" Rev. Porter asked Raxton. 

"Sure," was Raxton's only response. 

Suddenly there was what seemed to be 
an earthquake. The earth rocked on its 
foundations. The floor tilted ninety 
degrees, becoming a wall. But there 
wasn't the slightest sound. That was all 
Raxton was aware of for the brief moment 
the event lasted. Everything snapped 
back to normal. Alex looke,d ..around^, All 
was* as it had been. Not a single book 
had fallen from its shelf. His three 
hosts just observed him as he took deep 
breaths. The women hadn't even screamed. 

"That was just a minor example," 
commented Miss Pegasus. "And here we go 
again!" 

Suddenly everything was on fire. 
Books, shelves, cash register, chairs, 
Porter, Pegasus, Lloyd and Alex. Every- 
thing was engulfed by dancing flames. 
But there was no heat and nothing was 
consumed. When the flames snuffed them- 
selves out, all was as it had been. Alex 
checked his hands to make sure there were 
no third-degree burns. 

"Well, what do you think so far?" 
wondered Porter. 

"Freaker," was Raxton's only re- 

"Hia mentality seems to remain sta- 
ble," Porter told his two associates. 
"Is is agreed that we should continue?" 

"Yes," was Lloyd's vote. 

Pegasus considered for a minute be- 
fore speaking, then said, "Very well, 
allow me." She then stood up and vanished 
into thin air. ft . 

Raxton was astounded. "What the 
hell . . .?" 

"She *=*«+: <al£jp$xsd i Pt-- &n£rth*xr level 
of ex h..f***ace is all," said Lloyd. "You'll 






be following her in a second or two." 

As soon : as Raxton realized what 
she meant, he got up and rushed to the 
door. Nobody tried to stop him, so he 
made a hasty exit. Free of that place 1 
It had been too weird, even for him. 
IJ -'hen a hand ' grabbed his shoulder. 
He spun around and blankly gazed into 
the eyes of a grizzled old man. 

"Got change?" his detainer moaned. 
"Even a nickle'd help." 

' "Huh?' 11 Raxton didn-' t ..comprehend. 
"I, I don't — what did you say?" 

"I need money real bod," pleaded 
the old man. 

Raxton instinctively stuck a hand 
in his pocke.t and found a quarter. He 
offered it to the bum. As the quarter 
changed ownership, the reception on 
Alex's optic nerves began to go bad. 
The world began to look like a fuzzy 
picture on an old black and white set. 
He felt like he was falling, as reality 
faded away completely. Soon he drifted 
in a void of total nothing. No light, 
no darkness, no sound, no silence. All 
he could do was scream. 

. „ J^JIGHTOFBPJlHI-iANNIGaTOFBRAHMNNIGIIT 
OFBRAHI-mrTNIGHTOFBRAHMANNIGHTOFBRAIIMN. . . 

Let it be known that Alexander 
Xavier Raxton floated in that void of 
nada for a time unknown. His senses, 
starved for any sensation, pleasant or 
painful, were finally forced to turn 
inward. Inward into that which made him 
what he was — his creative artist's 
soul. His mind created vivid visions 
of the unreal. It even composed an^,.,. 
orchestrated music to fit those scenes. 
And, of course, it put together that 
which it considered ' its specialty — 
poetry. 

(An Example) 

Le me tell you a tale of woe 
About a dream that died long ago 
It's burned deep inside my soul 
Forgotten 

Forgotten as the spring day that 
spawned it 

Go down, go down 

Past the clear mountain streams 

That flow into the rivers of your 

mind 
Into the sewers of your soul 
Under the scum 
Beneath the murky waters 
Past the nightmare creatures 
It's under the mud 
The dream is there, with all the 

othersi 

Dreamworld — 

Realm of madness 

■i 

Spiral fires, flaming- clouds •*• 
Frozen sk±es % malted stone 
Here he rules 
Your other self 



( continued) 



-32- 



Amber crom and Beyond, continued 

Call him king he'll let you go (We are sorry that i% is beyond our 

_ , 1.-,-, i., I « ability to show you the terrain Alex vis- 

But you are still the master . " x. at. • , 

J ualized, or to present the music arranged 

b ? a Sf een cat to go with it. These technical difficul- 

with blazing red eyes ties wm be rectified if we ever trans _ 

Ta^es you home _ ^ cend tQ & higher entertainment medium — 

an **** a Y R a ^ l eas ^ comic-books!) 

-The Management 
THE TESTAMENT OF ALEXANDER X. fiAXTON 

-translated from the original 
Random creative thought patterns by a pseudo-Mardukian apprentice 

I was free, free, free! Free at last. How long had 
I been in that bloody void? I'll never know. But I 
was finally out of it. My perceptions peeked out over 
the edges of my Self. I was indeed somewhere, so they 
reoriented themselves to the exterior realm. But I 
wasn't where I had been. Somehow, I sensed it. I was 
in a different spiritual realm than that of earth. I 
was in hell. So here's the story . . . 

These blazing red suns had just come up over the 
horizon. There were three of them. I sighed as soon 
as I realized that I was in a traffic jam on the high- 
way to hell. And I was at the wheel of a black Cor- 
vette, sweating like a pig. Normally, I souldn't mind 
being at the wheel of a black Corvette, and I can stand 
sweating like a pig. But all the otner autos jammed 
to a stop along the great freeway, miles ahead and 
miles behind, were black Corvettes. And damnl I was 
basting in my own juices and the freaking air-condi- 
tioner was turned all the way. When these multiple 
realizations sank in (that I was in hell, in a traffic 
jam, in a car just like everybody else's, and sweating 
like a pig), I uttered a word considered crude in 
some quarters. I said, "Shit I" 

"Why don't you roll down the window, old chap?" 
suggested a pleasant voice. It spoke with an English 
accent. I turned to seek out the owner of that voice, 
memories of Monty Python dredged up. Yes, there he 
was. I hadn't even known he was there. Huddled in 
the back seat, he wore a thick coat. You know, the 
kind Eskimoes are supposed to wear. Hands stuffed 
in pockets, hood pulled up. I couldn't see the face. 
It was nothing but a field of darkness. But three 
glowing red eyes stared back at me. Guess what I 
asked him? "Who the heck are you?" He had an answer: 
"I am your personal, private demon. I inspired your 
tormented creativity, I drove you to reject a normal 
life. I caused you to alienate yourself from the 
people you really liked. I am your blessing and your 
curse." He was a very melodramatic being. After he 
finished, all I said was, "Oh." We were silent for a 
few moments, then he said, "Now roll down the bloody 
window." 

Something in that politely pleasant, but unhuman 
voice told me that I had best obey. I slowly turned the 
crank, wondering how hot it would be outside. I just 
knew I was going to be broasted, baked, and fried. But 
a cool breeze caressed my face instead. I inhaled and 
relaxed. When I closed my eyes, I could almost smell 
and imagine a country spring. ' Needless to say, I 
shut off the God- forsaken air-conditioner that had so 
deceived and tortured me. Piece of junk! 

Then the traffic started to move. Soon everybody 
was cruising along at a leisurely rate. I waved^and 
honked at a few people and they waved back, smiling 
happily. As far as I could tell, I was the only 
driver chauffering a demon. Everybody elese had his 
or her car to himself. 

"Go faster/' commanded my supernatural passenger. 
I pKvJi^-itly floored the gas pedal. We started passing 

(continued) 

-33- 



Amber crom and Beyond, continued 



the other cars like they were standing still. Then 
I suddenly lost control. The brand new automobile I 
had been given went sailing off the road. My demon 
laughed. A telephone pole rudely placed itself in 
my path. The car connected with it. For a brief 
moment, I wondered who in hell used telephones . . . 
(Hello Baphomet, this is Satan. How ya doing, 

buddy?") 

...I lost awareness of everything then. Only 
the demon laughter echoed in my mind, slowly fading. 

MORNINGOFSHIVAFDHNINGOFSHIVAMORNINGOFSHIVAMORMINGOFSHIVA, 



and haul you away." 
I took a test 
And I tried my best 
But I failed 
In Life 101 



-A. X. R. 



Alexander Xavier Raxton opened his 
eyes, torrents of tears trickling down 
the sides of his face. Still half dazed, 
he moaned solemnly at his window shade, 
through " which the aura of a bloodred 
sunset seeped. "By the gods, by the godsi 

My soul is dead. It has beached itself ( smi iing slyly) "He certainly 

on the shores of Apathy. It struggled PORTER. ^ sm ^ n & ^W 
for awhile, tentacles thrashing, trying fell for that, 
to grab hold of something. But it is now LLOYD: (giggling girlishly) Yes, he 

^V^ic^ts^anf muffled, seem- SSe^You can come back now Miss 

ing to come down from some mysterious Pegasus. 

heaven above, replied to Alexander's a- NARRATIVE 

side. "Shut up, you goddamn freak, or END MRRATIVL Mclick „ 

I'll call the goddamn loony bin to come 

******** 



David Moore 

AZAMANTA SWIMS GRACEFULLY 

The ancient wizard sang a mournful song 

As he hiked to Babylon 

The birds flew 

And the fish swam 

Ahriman whispered in his ear 

Softly and seductively 

But he paid no heed 

For he always looked up 

Accidently stepping on the tail of 

Leviathan 
Who snorted brimstone 
And spat lava 
In his just anger 
For his tail was quite sensitive 
The wizard ran wildly away 
As the beast rose from the sunken spires 

of Mu 
Chewing despots two by two 
Old Tiamat pursued the poor wizard 
'cross barren deserts 
And slimy swamps 
"Be be be with me" 
It invited politely 
"I will teach many things to you 
Passing them under the Table of Wisdom" 
Now the wizard sits in a sunny clearing 
Happily learning forgotten secrets 
Ho never got to Babylon 

RAZZLEFRAZJ J J 
******** 



J. D. Guse 

SACRILIGIOUS COMPLIMENT 
TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN 

Far rah 's face 

which is full of grace 

hallowed be thy name. 

Your kingdom will come, 

I will be done 

to praise your beauty forever. 

Give me this day 

to look your way 

and forgive the hidden meaning of my 

lusting glance 
as I forgive myself for the rudeness 

I had shown you. 
But you have led me into temptation 
and delivered me from all evils. 
Amen Baby! 

******** 



-3*t- 



Adriane Saylor 

TOMORROW IS TIME ENOUGH 

Today I will listen to no laments 

about the state of the economy, 

whether or not the bomb will be dropped, 

and whether or not the world will give back 

what I have given, thoughtlessly; 

For today, I will gather the sun and 

the wind and all that I can of moments 

filled with the memory of your laughter. 

Tomorrow is tim© enough for tears, 

tomorrow is time enough for sitting or regretting 

actions 'and moments lost to cowardice. 

For today, I will fill my jheart viith the. 

meadows of your eyes and dance with " ~ ■-■«.• 

a song of love racing through every nerve 

and beating against the very nucleus of my being. 

tomorrow "will be time enough to care 

about consequences and to sort headlines 

and to re-read glances. 

Today I will not see ugliness, for today 

I will launch your banner, and ring your bell 

and challenge each stifled soul to catch this comet 

and her blazing trail of happiness. 

Tomorrow is time enough for pain, 

come, let us feast and love, 

today ..... 

******** 

Judy Bel field J. Aschenbrenner 

WHEN I CALLED TODAY MOMENTS 

T ,..,.', What we shared was a moment 
When I called today , . . , ., . -, 

' ,j. i nothing more and nothing less, 

there wasn't much We ^ Qur led nQwhere 

I'd planned to say, yet we shared our time to the fullest, 

yet we talked for over two hours J 

and I felt happy. . T . , -. , 

■ ,.1.1,. , -j. t- j You showed me a world 

Some people might think it absurd, ,. , -i •+.+. „ „„j ^ij 

, x. t i i -, * which was glitter and gold 

but I asked myself, , ..• . - . , „. . -^^ A 

,,,„ _-., on delicate and soft to hold. 

.. . ,,."Why am I ...happy?" „. ., . *..„.. 

and proceeded to examine the question „ ' , -, , 

1 ., j. • You showed me a world 

by analyzing our conversation ... . , , ~i„„-j 

J , J * .? . . which was hard and cracked 

and recreating it n .. .. , n ,, 

. _ to , , , like old leather, 
as best as I could remember. who lived &t n±ght 

I still couldn't figure out why I was happy ^ & J^ Qf h inesSo 

SS?. 1 told *f elf ' . .:.. „ Love hungry people 

"This is silly. Jusy enjoy it," g^ best to survive# 

but I couldn't leave it alone J ° 

and I picked at it a while longer. ^ ^ coraes for cards 

When I finally realized and x tMnki about what we , ve 

that it was you and your voice , 

that had made me happy, ^ kno °^ life was important 

it was too late — 

I wasn't happy any more. 

somewhere. 



when I think of you. 



******** 



******** 

Adriane Saylor 

DAY RETROGRADE, OR MOON, VOID OF COURSE 

Moons, what is this, madness 

that tips teacups and sticks my tongue 

to such banal phrases? 

Stars, what that love should tumble 

and aborted be at the root of my soul; 

What cause for all this wind that 

tosses thought like leaves about in a jumble? 

(continued) 
-35- 



Day Retrograde, continued 

That I should say things ill, 

words should fall like stones, not 

feathers, and you should look away. 

Bright, brihgt planet in the firmament of 

my heart, that I should be adrift thus. 

Hasty step that should lead me as it does 

away from the warmth of your glow. 

Down, down oh bitchy mistress, 

your fire put out this day retrograde, 

this hour of my fail. 

Oh sow, you hateful, sour vixen 

drag away your poetic prophesy. 

Heresy, this, that sends the lover away 

unrequited with bitter words and hurtful glances 

instead of sweet and soothed friendship 

and aborted chances to fan the coals of love 

anew . . „ . • 



******** 



Mary Hensley 

SUNDAY DRIVE 

He at the wheel, 

Eyes straight ahead 
Controlling their lives 
With both hands. 

She with the door 
Gazing beyond 
Wondering, pondering, not sure. 

A lifetime of emptiness filled in 
Between them 

Yards and yards of silence 
Upholstering the seats. 

If autos could drive 

In two different directions 
He'd travel on forward 
And she would detour. 

******** 

Judy Bel field 

BECAUSE YOUR KISSES WERE SO WARM 

Because your kisses were so warm, 

I thought I knew you — 

but they were whispers 

that told selected secrets 

and kept your mystery intact — 

while I blabbered out my essence. 

Because you permitted our minds to touch, 

I thought I knew you — 

but it was oblique contact you carefully controlled 

and we met only on tangents you dared to bare — 

while I tore off my clothes and frolicked naked. 

I think now 

that all was not as it should have been 
You were much wiser than I . 

******** 



Geri Harder 

HOW DID YOU KNOW? 

My bedroom eyes 

Told you lies. 

But how could you tell? 

How did you get 

So wise? 

To see inside 

My soul 

And know 

That what I said I needed 

Wasn't even what I wanted. 

And that leaving was best 

Before the regrets. 



Had you been 

Around that much? 

Had you seen 

Enough pain 

To know that, from you, 

I had gained 

All that I should? 

And that the best kiss 

Would be that 

Last, fast one 

We snared? 

I can see now 

The special way 

You cared. 

******** 



-36- 



Geri Harder 



FOR DAVE 



Daydreams and cigarettes. 

Countless hours 

I have spent. 

All alone 

With the stereo 

And a telephone 

r Aiat doesn't ring 

Anymore. 

Listening to them sing 

-'■he songs 

That made you take 

Your life 

A little easier. 

Because it was 

So hard 

To play with 

The cards 

You were dealt 

By a God I don't understand, 

Who stole you back 

At a time 

That was so wrong, 

Right in the middle 

Of your favorite song. 

Babe, I hope ' there's music 

Wherever you are. 

And that the sky 

Still looks blue. 

And that you can hear the songs 

I never stop playing 

For you. 

******** 

FACING IT AGAIN 

Five rum and cokes 

And a few easy tokes 

Out at Greener Pastures 

Enjoying myself 

Until watching the dancers 
Who got to dance slow 
Made me think of you 
And another night 
When the high wasn't forced 
And the dance floor lights 
Flickered to the beat 
Of Seger and "You'll Accompany Me". 
You held me close and rocked me, 
Your new baby. 

I read promises in your eyes 
About the "someday, lady ..." 
That weren't really there 
Because they never came true, 
But I saw them anyway 
And fell in love with you. 
It just felt right at the time; 
Foresight has never been 
A close friend of mine. 

******** 



Judy Bel field 
I SIT . . . PEN IN HAND 

-L 51 U & © o 

pen in hand, 

pretending written words 

can substitute 

for those I'd rather say to you. 

And I imagine you're here 
standing at my elbow, 
reading over my shoulder, 
watching every word appear — 
anticipating the next phrase, 
because you know 
the windings of my mind 
* • too well. 

And all the while, 

you smile that smile — 
I see it now before me on the page 
tangled in with the words, 
blurring my concentration 
and my eyes. 



I sit 



pen in hand, 
pretending • . • 

LET US RUN AWAY 

Let us run away 
out beyond the stars 
to worlds untouched. 
Dream with me 

of splashing in pools of color 
that turn our bodies 
from silver to green to scarlet 
as we race toward purple horizons 
that seem impossible to reach — 
but we won't care. 

Think of flowers that 'twinkle 
and fragrant suns 
and whispering ribbons of air 
to tie in our hair. 

Hold my hand 

and feel the magic 

of piano music 

escaping from giant seashells in the sky. 

Look into my eye 

and see it all there waiting — 

you don't even need to pack. 

Geri Harder 

THIS TIME 

When the shit 

(That you don't give) 

Hits, 

I split. 

No, wrong. 

I'll already 

Be gone, 

Down the road 

With my load — 

So long. 

I aint gonna 

Hang around. 

-37- I'm gonna see it 

Comin' down. 

******** 



Geri Harder 

A FANTASY 

Rub my back. 

Don't give no flak. 

*his is a game 

Where you can't say my name 

Or make comments about 

Any name I cry out. 

Just play out my scenes. 

You'll get your turn 

But now it's for me. 

Okay, lights out. 
Now lick me here and 
Inside my ear. 
Put your fingers 
Right down there 
And take me for a ride 
In the rocking chair. 

Okay, no more. 

Onto the floor. 

Led Zep sets the beat 

With "Tea for One". 

Now give it to me 

And keep that pace. 

Put your kisses 

All: 'over my face 

And keep your hands in my hair. 

Don't talk to me. 

I want to hear you breathe . . . 

Now it ' s over 

But you don't have to leave. 

Stay and be my pillow 

Till I fall asleep. 

Next time is your turn. 

We'll act out your dreams. 

But one rule is always the same, 

If I play this game. 

Whatever you say, 

You can't say my name. 

******** 



J. Aschenbrenner 

LOVE ON THE ROCKS 

The city is silent now 
as it stands behind us 
while we stop and listen to our thoughts. 

The water laps repeatedly against the shore 
as lights flicker from distant vessels. 

Our bodies touch and slide together 
turn and fold with passion 
hidden in the vapor of fog. 
August's steam bath has hidden us well 
upon the rocks. 

Your. skin is moist with earth's dampness 

and glistens beneath me. 

So much is shared within our minds, beyond our 

bodies. 
This time is ours, moments shared. 

******** 

Simon 
"13" AND NOTHING BETTER TO DO 

I met her in a bar. 

She was drunk, and so was I. 

We danced to music. 

I asked her, "Do you want to leave?" 

She answered me with a "yes." 
We got inside my car. 

We carried on a little bit. 
I drove to an inn. 

Then we went in, 

And carried on a little bit more. 

Suddenly she had her lips there . 
I told her to stop. 

She ignored me. 

So, I choked her until she was dead. 



******** 



Mary Hensley 
ACE IS THE PLACE 



Abby lay in bed, her hands clenched 
in fists of frustration. Steven rolled 
over on his side and resumed his snoring. 
Contentment showed on his face. His body 
was relaxed and spent from their lovemak- 
ing. Abby felt her nails as they pain- 
fully etcned small semicircles in her 
palms. "Lovemakingi God, he couldn't 
even take off my nightgown," she bitterly 
cried as she tugged the soft blue cloth 
down to cover her nakedness. 

Cars could be heard down in the 
street. Life goes on, she thought. Life 
goes on. Abby's frustration and anger 
grew as the chimes on the old grandfather 
clock announced the passing of time. 
Grabbing her pillow, she slid out of bed 



so as not to wake Steven. This precau- 
tion was unnecessary. He would not a- 
waken the rest of the night. Alcohol 
was a good sedative. Years ago, in an 
attempt to placate Abby, after she had 
asked for a divorce, he had switched 
from whiskey to beer. The grand gesture 
had done nothing for their marital prob- 
lems and less for their love life. 
Whiskey or beer, the effects were the 
same. Abby had, at one time, tried 
drinking to match Steven's moods. All 
she accomplished was to acquire a 
ghastly headache and burn a perfectly 
good dinner while hanging on the toilet 
heaving what felt like the linings of 
her stomach. 



(continued) 



-38- 



Ace is the Place, continued 

Now she was glad he had sedated him- 
self. The night was hers. 

Softly she padded barefoot into Bri- 
an's room. Thirteen, long and bony, his 
golden brown hair stood up at odd angles. 
He tried so hard to tame the unruly cow- 
licks. Abby smiled to herself as she re- 
called the day they had gone to a petting 
zoo and a six-foot tall llama had leaned 
over and begun munching Brian's hair. 
She looked down now and noticed the dir- 
ty socks, he wore. Brian insisted on 
wearing his socks to bed even though Ab- 
by warned him that wearing socks to bed 
resulted in nightmares. It was a game . .. 
they played.Each knew the worst that 
could happen would be a chronic case of 
stinky feet. Gently, she leaned down 
and kissed his ruffled hair. 

Down the hallway, Sara slept in a 
fairy tale world of ruffles and flowers. 
Her room was bathed in a glow of street 
lights filtered by evergreens that sur- 
rounded the Victorian turret windows. 
' Under piles of patchwork quilts' that 
Abby had made lay her beautiful daughter, 
nestled among admiring fans. Fred the 
frog, Annie, and an entourage' of dolls 
whose names changed as often as the pag- 
es of a calendar. Only one detail broke . 
the magical spell and that was the ;fact 
that ner daughter snored. The love of 
her life, the image of her own. childhood, 
snored. Not a sweet soft murmur, but a 

full-blown nasal snore. Abby surveyed 
the room and took in the wide array of 
objects that expressed' her daughter's 
changing interests. Roller skates and 
sewing boxes, fairy tale books and KISS 
posters. Growing up is not a smooth pro- 
cess. Abby paused at the door and won- 
dered if the process ever ended. 

Becky's was a small room with lots 
of windows, making bright and sunny to 
match the child's disposition. Colorful 
paper and apple green carpet exemplified 
Becky. Becky was the light of Abby's 
world. The youngest of the children, she 
was the most loving and giving. Too un- 
selfish, Abby thought, as Becky tried to 
keep everyone happy, a big job for one so 
small . 

Y/hen Abby entered Becky's room, she 
found her little one curled up in a fetal 
position, thumb firmly rooted in her 
mouth. Becky was proud that she no long- 
er sucked her thumb, and Abby didn't have 
the heart to tell her different. 

Ab^y leaned down and brushed wisps 
of hair from her. little one's face, allow 
ing the happiness her children gave her 
to relax strained muscles, ease tired 
emotions. 

As she eased one foot in front of 
the other down the darkened stairway, 
Abby wondered why such a beautiful feel- 
ing of love just wasn't enough, 

At the bottom of the stairs, she 
stood for some moments and listened to 
the sounds of the old house. A branch 
played rhythmically on a screen, the 



pendulum gliding back and forth, a breeze 
causing a shade to rattle. And everyone 
upstairs slept. 

Taking her pillow, she made up a 
bed on the front room couch. The dog, 
happy to see her, bounded onto the end 
of the sofa. She made a mental note to 
bathe him in the morning. Abby realized 
sleep was not what she needed. 

Getting up, she made her way to the 
bathroom ^and pulled out her old jogging 
suit. It had been years since she ran, 
long ago given up when she began to chan- 
nel her marital frustrations into a new 
job. Also she had found that running 
had had a strange aphrodisiac effect, 
leaving her with ,a sensuous feeling that 
created an even greater frustration. To- 
night she would run and come home with 
no frustration. 

Abby slipped the nightgown over her 
head, pausing to survey herself in the 
mirror. Not bad. ,. Three babies had left 
their marks, but Abby had never felt 
these baby lines were ugly. In fact, 
she felt a pride 'in their presence. No 
man other than Steven had ever seen her 
naked and she felt apprehensive now. 
Steven had held her when she was young, 
firm, and unmarked. He had seen the 
change from young girl to womanhood, 
would another man be disappointed? Abby 
took a deep breath, threw the nightgown 
into the closet and donned her gray 
sweatsuit and beaten down shoes. 

Standing at the door, a whispered 
"Good-bye" on her lips, she ran her fin- 
gers through her uncombed hair and de- 
cided jit. was time. 

David"had wanted her for a year now. 
They had met while shopping for plumbing 
supplies. A bby was fixing a leaky fau- 
cet. David was replacing a water heater 
and no salesperson had been within 
five hundred feet. 

They began comparing their old 
houses and soon were playing "I bet my 
roof is worse than yours" games. They 
simply enjoyed each other. Neither 
wanted to end the conversation, yet 
neither knew how to continue. As the 
purchases were rung up .and bagged, on the 
way to the parking lot, until the moment 
the car doors were unlocked, they shared 
carpentry secrets, plumbing hints, any- 
thing to prolong the time together. 
Then it was time to leave. Abby felt 
devastated. She had known this man less 
than an hour and she felt as though she 
._ had lost a best friend. 

She found herself often at the hard- 
ware store. She didn't see David again 
until weeks later when she spotted him, 
paint- splattered, trying to match colors 
to various splotches on his arms and 
sneakers. Abby smiled, withheld a cry 
of joy* and walked over and said, "hi." 
David whirled about, a grin crossed his 
face, and they resumed bantering as if 
there had been no interruption. 

This time, after unloading their 
purchases in their cars, David and Abby 



(continued) 



-39- 



Ace is the Place, continued 

^ikPd to a nearby coffee shop and spent window she prayed, then stopped, r emern- 
Sntirea?SnLn getting to know each baring God probably would not like being 
other. Childhoods, secret dreams, favor- called on to assure a safe affair. 
■it7ice cream flavors, movies, books, Abby tapped on the window and hoped 

flowers !- anything and everything. They (hoping being godless and safe). that 
became siste^and brother, best friends Helen had fallen asleep in the baby s 



and lovers all in an afternoon over cof- 

f es 

Being married, a friendship was all 
that either of them expected. Or had 
they? As Abby walked- towards David's 
house, she wondered if she had not wanted 



room, as she did now that she had ful- 
filled her wifely duty of having chil- 
dren. „ '•,:, , 
Tap, tap, tap. "Please David, wake 

up*" She waited. 
' Drapes rustled. There was David, 



house, she wondered if she naa noL wauu«u »^~ thresh sleepy eyes, that 
David as a true lover from the moment she Pe^^^^^goAp^arir, 



had first seen him. 

For a year now, they had had secret 
picnics, hour-long phone conversations. 
!;•••;,- 'iad been left under each other's • 
wiv< shield wipers. And always trips to 
the hardware store, where they would gan- 
der up and down aisles of mysterious gad- 
getry, entertaining each other with feats 
of heroic 'how-to-fixits." 

Both married to spouses who rejected 
the idea of do-it-yourself reparirs, they 
had undertaken these chores of necessity, 
found them enjoyable, and now basked in 
the added bonus of sharing their feats 
with another. 

So the weeks and months went by, 
and through it all, they never physically 



familiar grin of recognition appearing 
on his face. She smiled back, and the 
curtain fell as if he had never been 
there. An owl hooted in a nearby tfcee, 
a siren could be heard chasing across 
town, and then the back door creaked. 
That was the sound she had waited for. 
Oh, how long she had waited. 

David came hopping out, trying to 
get to her and tie his shoe at the same 
time. He forgot the shoe and rushed 
to engulf her in his arms. No more talk- 
ing. Now they would touch each other. 
No longer were words needed to create 
a barrier. All barriers were gone, and 
both knew they would talk later. But 
now talk just wasn't needed. Tb.e:y 



and through it all, they never pnysicaxxy now ^JTlJ^ra^ David now lean- 
touched. Oh, a hand brushed against while let go of each otner ana^avi 



Now" Abby thought, "for what?" Tonight 
she would find out if the earth would 
tremble, if the sky would fall, if God 
would bellow down and condemn her for all 
eternity. Tonight she would take a lo- 
ver . 

She and David had agreed to wait a 
year. She would be secure in her job 
and a divoree would be swift, as she 
would be able to support the children. 
Helen, David's wife, had announced years 
ago she wanted her own life and when 
their youngest, w&§ in school, she would 
leave David, their children and home. 
A year now wasn't long to wait. They 
both agreed — a year. 

But tonight, a year seemed just too 

long to wait*. 

Abby speeded up her pace. She was 
now on his street and felt silly, but 
hummed the old tune from "My Fair Lady" 
that expressed her feelings. 

Not one car had passed her, and his 
street was as deserted as the rest of the 
neighborhood at this hour. 

David' 3 house was dark, the battered 
pick-up was parked reassuringly in the 
drive. Helen's car *ras tidily tucked 
away under- the car port. 

Silently, she crept up the drive, 
thankful this was not a doggy neighbor- 
hood with barking to announce her ap- 
vroach. Standing before his bedroom 



Stolen sidelong glances confirmed that 
each was as happy as the other. 

Abby slid her hand from David s, 
and walked backwards, in front of him, 
teasing him with smiles and fleeting 
kisses. Feeling an unbelievable free- 
dom, she took off running, glancing back 
just once to see David protectively be- 
hind her. When her lungs would no long- 
er sustain her, she rolled into a ball 
and came to a stop under a large flower- 
ing lilac bush. 

David caught up and found Abby 
sitting, her chin on her knees, arms 
wrapped around her legs. He slid in 
next to her, scraping his large frame 
on the low branches. They sat apart, 
each drinking in the other's presence. 
David scooted over closer to Abby, put 
his arm around her shoulder, and leaned 
his face against her hair. She looked _ 
up and they kissed, not fleeting, teasir 
kisses, but deep passionate exchanges. 
Still they did not speak. Slowly they 
drew apart and began to undress, e$cn 
helping the other, hands gliding over 
bodies, discovering enjoying, lifig^rin 
Making a bed of their gray sweat suits, 
Abby lay back and accepted David as a 
lover. Their night journey had been 
their forepiay. They took from each 
other eagerly. Unselfishly they gave. 
And they came, too soon and yet not 
soon enough. Both knew it would be the 



( continued) 



-40- 



Ace is the Place, continued 

first of many unions. 

They remained holding each other, 
whispering each other's name. They made 
wild, incredible promises — wishes for 
the future. Before long, Abby felt David's 
manliness. She giggled and decided to 
stop reading Southern romance novels, in 
which women always felt their lovers' "man- 
liness." But she couldn't think of a bet- 
ter phrase to explain what was happening. 
She was feeling David, and, luckier than 
her Southern counterparts, she wasn't en- 
cumbered by tiers of petticoats and panta- 
loons. She could feel, see and touch Da- 
vid. He was here and she was ready to 
accept him. 

A *>arge sounded off in the distance. 
They shared one last kiss, then hurriedly 
dressed. Just then a hand came through 
the bushes and shook her. Sta r tled, Abby 



screamed and turned to find a police- 
man firmly grasping her shoulder. She 
looked back for David but he was gone. 
And the policeman kept shaking her. 

Suddenly, she sat up. Steven was 
standing over the couch ready to shake 
her again. "Wake up. It's time to 
get up and fix breakfast." Taking a deep 
breath, Abby oriented herself to the 
morning reality. A deep sadness came 
over her. She Sad" fallen asleep on the 
couch last night. She hadn't made love 
to David. Not yet, she smiled. Later 
that morning, after giving the dog a 
bath, she went down to the hardware 
store to see what was new. 

The End or Beginning I 



******** 



Jan Allen 

A LINEAR PROGRESSION 

p. m. 

uptight 
kids fight 
husband right 
stars bright 
sex tonight! 

a, m. 

breakfast make 
cake bake 
break take 
lawn rake 
orgasm fake 

******** 

J. D. Guse 

NEW WORDS TO AN OLD TUNE 

A cloudless night 

with a star-filled sky 

you often make me wonder why 

We 

haven't shared this time together. 

The configurations 

of your face 

have often told me there's a place 

that we 

could shmeday share forever. 

You have snown to me 
the side of you 
that longs to be free. 
But darlin' can't you see 
that you and I together 
were always meant to be. 

You made me feel 
a whole new way 



Douglas W. Billett 

A SONG 

A song 

comes on the radio. 
A feeling engulfs me; 
takes me over. 
Sends me drifting 
in a world 
where fantasy 
tries so hard 
to become reality. 
I glide mellifluously 
in a daydream 
where all -is perfect. 
* My body' tingles 

in a natural high, 
and I' am addicted. 
Then suddenly, 
the song is over, 
my spirit drops — 
leaving me empty 
until reality 
thrusts itself 
upon me. 
And, once again 
I am forced 
to face 

this imperfection 
called life. 

Dwbgebntifshrspa 
320-64-7809 

******** 

when I saw you on that summer's day. 

You see 

you've made my whole life better. 

In a thousand dreams 

from night to night 

the way you look just seems so right, 

?or you 

my love will last forever. 



******** 



-41- 



David Moore 
THE SHADOW OF THE LAU 



There it sat in all its glory 

But it was ignored. 

Not that it strove for attention 

Or sought after anonymity — 

It merely was where it was 

Unknowingly waiting for discovery. 

Then the universal triad 

Of reason, imagination, and emotion 

Beheld it and knew obsession. 

Without realizing or caring, 

It cast a shadow that toppled tradition. 

They were helpless for many days 

For the storms came , . , 

Cutting ?hem off from that which they desired. 

For they felt alone and empty otherwise, 

Straight courage lacking, 

They began to stalk, 

Meeting: it- on its daily path. 

F?ndint moments of spiritual fulfillment, 

They maneuvered beside it 

Enjoying the minutes provided, 

Pleasantly chatting 

About nb thing in particular at all. 

Then came bitter frustration. 

It failed to show at the proper times and places, 

It sped up and slowed down, 

Going on long journeys to exotic places. 

Was it aware of the hunters? 

Was it being devious too? 

They didn't know. 

But when they thought they were ahead 

They saw they were really behind. 



******** 

Diane Francis 



Douglas W. Billett BL0O DGUILTI ONE 

My HANDS . . . , 

As I look upon this superficial wound 

Lay back, relax. ° instille d by IOU and YOUR demands, 

There's no need for words, ^ ^ ^ blood oozing in sm&U amounts 

just let me touch you. , ' Qnto ffly paper _ 

Drop your guard, surrender J expressing only limited traces 

s6 my Hands of my inner self. 

can feel what's in your heart. ^ ^^ Qf & purulent matter. 

My hands As Y0U push the knife of criticism 

are an extension er ±nto my fles ]a, 

of my mind. feel the pain of YOUR condemnation, 

They tell me the story whi ch makes me cry 

of how you feel inside, with tears of a jng U ish. 

deep inside. B those agon izing tearfc 

I sense what you need ~ slowly washing aw^y 

what you really want. the barrier f inhibition 

My hands j from mv eyes. ', 
are as gentle as a feather m a breeze. ^ ^J'™ ^ ? houg ^ts 

They unlock has been downed in a s ; ea 

the secrets within, of salty excretion, 

secrets you could never say. ^ ^ ^ ±nto Y0UR mindf 

So close your eyes * feel the madneS s 

and think no more. _ insanity 

Just drift on the sea of feeling, ^^ ^ tfae expreg5si on 

because I hold the key YQUR words# 

which sets your passion free. ^ ^ ^ . condoning 

this attack upon my 

Dwbgebnitfshrspa intellectual feelings? 

^20-64-7809 ^ do j ^ hold a knife 



******** 



in my hands 
and begin to pierce \ 
my own wall of protection 
and security? 



To The Bloodguilty One, continued 



Searching for an artery, 

I feel the desire to see 
the gushing spurts of blood 

shoot forth 
and splash upon YOUR face 

and into YOUR mouth, 
^so YOU can taste 

the warm fluid 
^that YOU say must 



control my writing. 
And I'll laugh 

with cynicism 
until YOU drown 

^ and lie 
in the pool of red fluid 
that YOU; 

"YOURSELF, •• 
withdrew from my- body. 



******** 



Adriane Saylor 

LOVE MONEY 

You are a coin in my pocket, 

wishing to be spent. 

You lie there, not quite next to my 

thigh, a hot penny, burning my flesh. 

You want to pay me for praise, 

but I will not let you free; 

I want to collect you, to hold onto 

your smooth surface, to fondle each side 

of you forever. 

You frighten me by almost slipping away, 

so I push you deeper, out of 

sight. 

I'm almost afraid to look at you, 

afraid you might be tarnishing, there 

where I have made your home. 

Like a dollar, you do not attract others, 

but linger, always on the verge of leaving me. 

I will not have it, I yell to your image. 

But with each hour you spend next to my hands, 

some^.jDf you fades away;, . v „,. .., 

You'^are losing your green finish 

and your edges are fraying away to nothing, 

leaving me feeling empty, hungry and poor. 

******** 



Judy Bel field 

LIKE A THIEF 

Like a thief, 

it came creeping, 

peeping through my windows, 

peering in at night, 

sneaking round the bushes, 

watching me 

watching me 

wanting to come in 

begging to come in. 
After awhile, I let it — 

and it filled the air 

with smiling lilacs. 

A rose sang an overture 

and kissed me in the silence 

of an overcrowded void. 
Outside a bridal shop 

and down a bumpy, lonely road 

it followed, 

swirling its stain 

about my feet, 

inching toward my souly 

until one day — * 
at last — 

it touched me, 

caressed me like a babe, 

fondled my new fingers and toes 

and bounced me on its knee. 
I've been had again. , 






Simon 



THE HUMAN FETUS IS LIKE A PARASITIC TAPEWORM THAT NEEDS TO BE PUNISHED 

It gropes to visceral impulses, to scorch an evil fume 

reeking of a rodent bite, by a clever swollen plume. 

The decomposed projectiles, pulsating without light, 

wretch constantly, impacting marrow, throbbing with delight. 

Sliding, shimmering vomit impaled upon his eyes 

diminished to reconcile, a sentence passed by lies. 

Fragments of a carcass spurt, approaching from behind 

eject to negate orbs of silence, heaving in his mind. 

Tunnels of reverberation choke my only child, 

expectorating itching veins of slime later to be trialed. 

The viscosity of repression has thickened on the wall. 

Relinquish grabbing, jabbing crowds recovered from the fall. 

The medium that is enslaved is pleasant to the taste, 

writhing points of unconcern, mangled by their haste. 

The prey, a sight fixed upon, is an infant's rind. 

A blast explosive, ripping, scrapping, and the infant is now fined. 

******** 



■43- 



Simon 

DON'T FACE THE NATION (NON-SENSE) 

Blind to corruption, all the mice had coats 

It f s best to turn your head away from burning yellow boats. 

Wash your hands three times a day, flush down the water, 

You don't need to look this way while we kill your daughter. 

Early expiration the blue man plays the game, 

The circus lions ate up the man they tried to tame. 

They opposed, but didn't see, when the rivers ceased their flow, 

I want to plant a garden, but my neighbor has my hoe. 

I talk to you, you talk -to me, they always bend our phrase 

one hundrfld and eighty degrees "out of phase*" 

Be sure tP tell the story and switch around "the facts, 

or we'll turn the volume up to "10" on your income tax. 

Judy Bel field 

EVEN AS THE SUN SHINES 

Even as the sun shines its clean,- clear, yellow light 
on the bare, round arms of children 
dancing their games on the playgrounds of the earth, 
an ugliness burbles that cannot be silenced. 
And we, seeing flowers bloom in our gardens, 

hearing the giggles of toddlers chasing moths, 
and smelling sweet grass, new-mown, 

try to pretend the ugliness doesn't exist. 
While we laugh with friends and drink our iced tea, 
it creeps about us like a silent plague, 
yet not so kind as pestilence — 
it tears at flesh, 
ripping skin and bone 

and sends a shriek of blood into the air 
but we do not hear — 

our tidy homes and handy gadgets are too important. 
From time to time, 

the ugliness becomes so horrific, 
we are made to listen, 

and then we chat with one another oyer coffee 

and the ho rroJ| continues while"' we speak words that deny its presence, 
except "somewhere else." 
Our air-conditioners hum; 

we are mesmerized by the sugar of an electronic eye 

which peers at us from morning til night 
and we are technological diabetics 

no better than the machines we created, 
because we do not feel 

until we are told we should. 
A president or a pope is shot 

and murmurs of outrage are heard. 
Sadness and disgust rise up in volume 

as people cluck their tongues or shed their tears en-masse. 
But at the very moment 

the tsk-tsks escape their windpipes, 
another windpipe stops 

in the darkness of a city or a country road; 
in the sunlit penthouses or Harlems of the earth. 
And nothing can extinguish the ugliness 

which slashes at our brothers' bellies, 
for it feeds on itself 
and grows more awesome every day ... 
while the children play 
and flowers bloom. 



-Mh- 



Simon 



J. Aschenbrenner 



SIGHTING A NAVY AD 

Violence is a sin against ourselves, 
And should die upon our hidden shelves. 

Life must live in free persistence 
with memory of initial existence. 

Reptilian aggression slowly erased, 

with silent redundant technological haste. 

Considered dissonance is euphonic, 
human relationships platonic. 

If backward magnitudes continue, 
then go to volume one, first issue. 

A viewpoint is sacred truth, 

Destruction: a quality of non-required youth. 

With egos falsely superior, 

used to destroy things inferior, 

the alien folly glitch a missle, 

that meet casualties that click, chirp, whistle. 

Imperceptibly, unintelligent s tread 
and excrete residual unresponding dead. 

"Why?" with a sigh? 
. 20 hertz, the reply. 



PAIN SO DEEP 

It ' s narrow there 

where the boy lies 

funneled into earth's flanks 

pressed deeper into its depths. 

The boy cries at first 

but soon his cries fade 

into a cold, sterile silence 

time is -kept now 

only by his heart beat. 

He is no longer aware 

his mind is a blur of pain 

he is no longer 

a part of our lives 

taken so violently 

so abruptly. 

The child once played here 

in this field above 

chasing swallowtails and bluejays. 

But now he lies below 

funneled between earth's flanks. 



******** 

Adriane Saylor 

SOME STUFF ON A THURSDAY 

Botticelli never painted Venus 

on that shell; 

She emerged, splendidly perfect from 

the heart of love and rested there, 

unaware that her home in the sea had vanished 

and Botticelli in his human condition had forever 

imprisoned her on that imperfect canvas. 

She was forever to emerge, 

from the minds of men 

always 
a little less perfect than she had been 
the morning Botticelli captured her. 
A nude prototype for female; 
A stereotype held before every girl child 
and mirrored in the halls of dream 
or whispered into the ears of every artist since 
then. 

But, Morgan Le Fay, 

woman's other self, the one we seldom see 
or hear about, has all these years drifted on the verge 
of someone's nightmare. 
Vindicated be, witch in us all, 
this day I have emerged from the turmoil 

of my painted life and said adieu to Venus and her shell, 
for Morgan and her spells of candor. • . 

******** 



-^5- 




Marge 



Peterson 



TOAD TEA 
is-i a brown toa&j 
™ ere ° n f, Sobby a^'knobby could be. 
Who was ab k "°°°f s by the road, 
He lived » * ^ftSnpon tea. 
And never missed 

He ate Hies £ ^^icoderf ul , «o 

gffflS SSS hideous in, 

He i^ _ t or two. 

And maybe an ant u 

■ q iuavs showed up, 

$2 rtr h «ev y er, did n£, _ 
The anu>, , were to ^up, 

Never sure it t ney hQt> 

0T be served up cri^ F 

******** 




-46 



»; n